


Only With The Heart

by prettyvk



Series: The James Holmes Chronicles [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Parentlock, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 63,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyvk/pseuds/prettyvk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It starts with five words.</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Are we talking about it?”</i></p><p>  <i>Or maybe, that’s how it ends.</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Over

**Author's Note:**

> From The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry:
> 
> _One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes…_
> 
> Heavy, heavy warning:  
> I've debated starting to post this or not. Finally decided to because there's only so many hours of should-be-sleeping time i can spend playing out those scenes in my head.  
> That being said, **this story will without a doubt go into hiatus within a few weeks** when the being currently kicking my ribs from the inside finally gets her eviction notice. I have no idea whether the story will go on hiatus on a cliffhanger or at a more 'peaceful' place, nor do i know how long it'll last or how much time i'll have to write then, so if you have issues with waiting you might want not to read this as a WIP.
> 
> Then again if you do decide to read along, i'd be quite grateful as always to hear your thoughts along the way. <3

It starts with five words.

“Are we talking about it?”

Or maybe, that’s how it ends.

It was a quiet morning until now. Not anymore. Sherlock would have been quite happy to keep sipping on his tea and nibbling on the corner of John’s toast; quite happy to pretend, just a little longer, that this isn’t the first morning after James returned to them; that everything is fine and normal.

James, however, has been shifting restlessly in his chair since Sherlock joined him and John at the table, and apparently he wants to get this talk out of the way sooner rather than later. So much for quiet and uncomplicated. So much for pretending. 

“I suppose we ought to,” Sherlock replies, then drowns a sigh in what’s left of his tea. And says nothing.

It’s not that he doesn’t have questions, demands, even reproaches. He just doesn’t know where to start. What is he supposed to say after James lied to him, drugged him, ran away, and finally pleaded to be brought home? What can he say when _that man_ put a gun to James’ head, shot Sherlock, and was shot dead in reply?

It’s barely been more than a week, but the flat still seems to echo with the silence James’ absence left behind. Filling this silence now seems like a tremendous task.

Still searching for words, Sherlock glances at John. He heard them talk, before he joined them. He couldn’t make out the words, but they did talk for a little while. Now he wishes he’d tried harder to listen in. John gives him an encouraging smile, but no suggestion as to what to say.

So Sherlock asks what, in the end, might be the most important question of all. And maybe the one whose answer scares him the most, too.

“Do you want to be here?”

It’s not what James expected; that much is clear when he becomes utterly still, his eyes suddenly a little wider.

“I… Yes. _Yes_. I do.” After a beat, he adds more quietly, “Do you not want me here?”

“You’re the one who ran away.”

Not just that; he planned it all over days. Kept things to himself, lied, obfuscated. And the entire time, Sherlock was oblivious. It feels like the most humiliating failure. How could he not see any of it? He’s confronted Moriarty head on, beat him at his own game – for the most part – and here he left a child who learned from Moriarty blindside him completely.

James’ gaze drops to the empty plate in front of him.

“I told you I was sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.” It seems so wrong for his voice to be that plaintive; just as wrong for his eyes to be pleading when he peeks up. “And I asked to come home.”

“Only after several days had passed. After he’d done that, presumably.”

When Sherlock gestures at his face, James immediately raises a hand to touch the shadow of a bruise on his cheek and what’s left of the cut on his lip.

“So I ask again,” Sherlock says, needing to know with a desperation he doesn’t quite understand. “Do you want to be here, specifically, with us? Or did you just want to be away from that man before he hurt you any more than he already had?”

If it’s the latter…

It would hurt, more than words can express – Sherlock knows that because he had to let go of someone only a few months ago – but if James wanted to live elsewhere, with someone else, someone who didn’t fail him…

Sherlock’s eyes drift toward John again. With John’s support, he could do it. If he had to, he could let go of James. It would be hard, harder than he wants to think about, but as long as he knew James was safe, he could do it. If that was what James wanted.

“I didn’t get a message to you because he was hurting me,” James says, his voice a little higher now. “I didn’t care about a few slaps.”

He sounds almost offended, as though the thought is ridiculous, and Sherlock’s stomach twists painfully. He shouldn’t be so willing to endure pain, should he?

“He started threatening to hurt you,” James continues. “I didn’t do what he wanted so he threatened you. I went to him so that you’d be safe but you weren’t safe anymore. So I could come back.”

He’s clinging to the table, clutching the edge with both hands and there’s no point in pushing him to his breaking point, even if Sherlock has so many other questions. He swallows back his fears and locks them up, at least for now.

“I’m glad you did contact us,” he says, “regardless of why. And I’m glad you’re here.”

He glances at John, who nods emphatically. “We both are. But can we get a promise you’ll never run away again?”

“It wasn’t about running away,” James protests.

John persists, right as Sherlock was about to. “Can we get a promise anyway?”

If James doesn’t roll his eyes at them, it must be a near thing because every syllable that passes his lips brims with exasperation. Better that than tears.

“I’m never going to run away. I promise.”

John’s and Sherlock’s gazes meet and a flash of understanding passes through them. They both believe James. They also both believe that, if James thought it was his only option to keep them safe, he’d do the same thing all over again.

“Good to hear,” John says nonetheless, standing from the table and setting his empty mug and plate in the sink. “Now if I could get both of you to promise not to drug anyone ever again…”

The words are teasing, delivered with a brief, twisted smile before John makes his way to the bathroom. Once the door has clicked shut behind him and the water started running in the shower, Sherlock clears his throat. He wishes the conversation were fully over, but James raised the topic, and maybe he has more to say.

“Is there something else you want to talk about?” he asks with some diffidence. “Anything that man did or said?”

It’s on purpose that he calls him ‘that man’, refusing him the title that should be his. As far as Sherlock is concerned, Philip Moriarty lost all right to call himself James’ grandfather the moment he put a gun to his head.

While James’ initial reply is a shrug, the way he’s touching the cut on his lip with his thumb hints at a different answer. Sherlock waits. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“He took me to see my father’s grave,” he says very quietly. “When I first got there, I mean. Until then I really thought…”

“You really thought Jim was alive,” Sherlock finishes for him.

James nods, just barely, and goes on. “I thought you’d lied to me. Or that you were wrong. And I was so mad at you. And then I realized I was the one who was wrong. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock leans back in his chair.

“You’re allowed to doubt me. As much as I’d like to think otherwise, I’m not infallible. Just don’t believe I’d lie to you. The last time I lied to someone I cared about it didn’t end that well, so I’d just as well avoid making the same mistake again.”

After clearing his throat, he adds, “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lie to me either.” When James starts protesting, he amends his words. “Or hide important information from me.”

Wincing, James drops his gaze again.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I really am. I don’t know what I need to say—”

“Nothing,” Sherlock cuts in as gently as he knows how. “You don’t need to keep apologizing. You’re home now. That’s enough. If you want to talk about what happened, we can do that. If you want to put it behind us, we can do that too.”

Something that’s a mix of hope and doubt crosses James’ face. 

“Can we just… go back to what things were like before my birthday?”

Can they? Sherlock certainly hopes so, but it might be easier said than done. Still, he nods.

“If that’s what you want.” 

“And I can go back to school?”

“I said you would when all this was over. It’s over, isn’t it?”

A sliver of hesitation before James answers tells Sherlock that he’s not the only one wondering about that. Philip Moriarty may be gone, but is his shadow? In just days, he upended all their lives. Can it all go back to normal that easily?

“Over, yes,” James murmurs, and Sherlock wishes he sounded more sure of himself.

*

Sherlock calls the school and informs them that James’ sudden illness is over and that he is ready to return. At his request, they email some class work he missed, and James immediately starts working on those. He only stops at lunchtime, and gets back to it after he’s done, taking with him a couple of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought up to celebrate his return. He barely even flinched when she hugged him.

It’s odd to see him at the desk, focused on assignments that, at first glance, looked utterly boring. Sherlock just can’t understand his interest in school. In many things they are alike, but on this topic they couldn’t be more different.

“Never thought I’d see the day when you’d let anyone distract you from your experiments,” John says, and as quiet as his voice is, Sherlock can still hear the amusement ringing through it.

He looks away from James, frowns briefly at the forgotten microscope in front of him, and finally turns his head to watch John fix two mugs of tea. 

How many cups did he fill, in the past week, that Sherlock never even touched?

He accepts this one with a nod and an awkward smile that fades right along with John’s own.

“What’s wrong?” he asks as John sets down his mug, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“Take off your shirt,” John says, and moves briskly out of the kitchen, returning from the bedroom before Sherlock has even made sense of the demand.

His first thought – Here? Now? When they have an audience just across the room? Shouldn’t they wait until tonight? – disappears when he sees the first aid kit in John’s hand, and he glances at his upper arm. A dark, wet circle is widening on the gray fabric.

“Oh,” Sherlock says, a little surprised, wondering how he failed to notice he was bleeding. Too caught up in his own thoughts… that’s not good.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” John says grimly. “I knew I should have taken you to hospital for stitches.”

“It’s just a graze,” Sherlock says, putting down his mug to start unbuttoning his shirt.

That’s what he said last night, too keen on taking James home to delay for something as annoying as stitches, but maybe he should have listened to John.

“Just a graze, right,” John mutters under his breath as he washes his hands. “And who of the two of us has actual medical training?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply and suppresses a wince as he shrugs out of the shirt. It truly isn’t that bad, and if John had thought otherwise he’d have put his foot down.

“You’re bleeding again?” James says quietly as he steps into the kitchen.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock assures him. “I must have moved the wrong way.”

John is still muttering, now about slings and restricted movements, as he unwraps the bandage and gets to work. Like last night, James comes closer, watching intently, although after a moment Sherlock realizes he’s not watching John’s hands anymore, his attention having drifted to what he can see of Sherlock’s back from this position. Sherlock suddenly feels hyperaware of the lattice of scars that covers his back, even more so when James’ hand rises to rub absently against his own clavicle—against some of his own scars.

His eyes drift up to meet Sherlock’s and for a second, Sherlock is sure he’ll ask about his back. Instead, he looks away, and asks John in a subdued voice, “That’s going to scar, isn’t it?”

John sighs softly, already doing up a bandage again.

“Afraid so. But it’s not as bad as it looks, really.”

Whatever James thinks of that, he never gets to say as steps resound in the stairwell, soon followed by Mycroft’s entrance. He takes one look at the scene and purses his mouth briefly, though he doesn’t comment and merely says hello.

A few moments later, Sherlock has a fresh shirt on and is settling down in his armchair while Mycroft sits across from him. James perched himself on the very edge of the sofa, and John distributes fresh cups of tea to them all before standing by the fireplace. Heavy circles darken Mycroft’s bloodshot eyes; Sherlock wonders when he last had a good night of sleep, and whether he’ll sleep any better tonight.

“Officially,” he says after taking his first sip of tea, “none of you was anywhere near Ireland recently. Which means of course that you didn’t get shot there, and didn’t shoot anyone.”

With some difficulty, Sherlock refrains from rolling his eyes. The operative who took John’s gun said as much last night, so this is nothing new.

“What’s left is the question of the Moriarty estate.” His eyes drift toward James, who sits up straighter under the attention. “The Irish authorities are going to start an auction process to dispose of the property and everything it contains. Legally, you have no claim to any of it, not when the name on your birth certificate is Holmes.”

When he pauses, James shrugs.

“I don’t care,” he says, maybe a little too forcefully. “I don’t want any of his stuff.”

The sliver of a smile touches Mycroft’s lips. “Not even Prince? There are ways we could get it before the auction even takes place.”

“Prince?” Sherlock asks sharply when James doesn’t answer right away. “What—”

“A foal Philip Moriarty acquired a few days ago,” Mycroft interrupts without lifting his eyes from James. “Presumably not for himself.”

Shaking his head, James looks into his cup of tea. “I don’t want it,” he says again, although this time he sounds a lot more hesitant.

“Hmm,” is Mycroft’s only answer, and Sherlock knows that look on his face. He might get that horse anyway, on the off chance James changes his mind later on.

“But I’d like my things,” James adds after a second or two. “Last night, it all happened so fast, I forgot… They’re in the bedroom.”

Mycroft pulls out his phone. “What things?”

“My ereader. It’s inside the toy sheep. And also my book. The Little Prince. It’s on the shelf next to the sheep.”

“Do you want the sheep, too?” Mycroft asks, typing on the phone.

Sherlock knows the answer to that before James utters a cool, “No.”

The phone disappears again inside Mycroft’s jacket and he nods. “All right. That’s one half of your heritage sorted out. Now about the rest. What do you want to do with the Knightsbridge house? The man who was taking care of that being dead, the matter is of some urgency.”

Months ago, when they first went there, James raised three options about that house. Keep it, sell it, or burn it down. Judging from his expression, he still doesn’t know what he’d like best.

“Can you arrange for someone to keep up with the bills, taxes and whatever else for now?” Sherlock asks when a moment has passed and James hasn’t done more than bite his own lip where the cut is now a little redder.

“What for?” John asks before Mycroft can answer. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that house isn’t exactly filled with happy memories. Maybe it’d be better to just let it go.”

Sherlock looks at him, and he can see on his face where the suggestion comes from. Twice, John left a home behind rather than live there with memories, and for him it was the right thing to do to be able to move on. But is James ready to do the same? He knows, now, fully and completely, that his father isn’t coming back. That doesn’t mean he’s ready to let go, whether the memories are happy ones or not.

“Can we… can we do like Sherlock said?” he finally asks, very quietly. “Not forever, just… just a while longer.”

No, it’s not over, Sherlock thinks as he sips on tepid tea. It’s all very far from over.


	2. To Be Patient

“Do me a favor?”

When he looks up from his violin case and arches an eyebrow at John, Sherlock expects to be asked to play for him, which he intended to do anyway. For him, for James when he finishes washing up, for himself so he can try to put some order in his thoughts before it’s time for bed… 

John props his head against his fist and settles a little more comfortably in his armchair, and says the very opposite of what Sherlock expected.

“If you’re not going to put your arm in a sling, at least leave the violin alone for a few days. Give yourself a chance to heal. All right?”

That’s… not all right at all, actually. He’s rarely played as much in his life as he’s been doing since he came back to London. Losing himself in the notes is how he’s been working out through a lot of things. Even now, his fingers itch to curl around polished wood, to pinch strings and caress sounds out of the instrument. He can’t resist taking it out of the case, though he leaves the bow alone.

He sits across from John with the violin in his lap, plucking quiet notes from it. John extends his leg, pressing his foot against Sherlock’s; a presence, nothing more, though much welcome. 

It’s the first time they’ve been alone all day – and the first time Sherlock has had a chance to ask.

“What were you talking about this morning before I joined you?”

John gives him a small smile, but it fades quickly.

“You, for the most part. His grandfather. And the fact that I killed him.”

Sherlock’s fingers slip and draw a sharp, discordant sound from the violin. He silences it by pressing his palm to the strings and looks at John intently.

“Is he… troubled by your role in that?”

Shaking his head, John sighs. “Not that I could see. Almost the opposite, I’d say. He didn’t actually come out and say he was glad the man was dead, but reading between the lines that’s the feeling I got from him.”

It’s not really a surprise – at least not to Sherlock, but maybe to John…

“It’s odd,” John goes on, more quietly. “He was so upset about those people who died in all that mess, but not about this man. And he was his family.”

“Blood kin, yes,” Sherlock says. “But family?”

John inclines his head, accepting the distinction.

“What about you?” Sherlock presses on. “You killed a man last night. Are you all right?”

“Well, he wasn’t a very nice man…”

A quirked eyebrow asks Sherlock if he can hear the echo of their past in John’s pointed words. He lets a thin smile reply for him.

“Frankly,” John adds, “when I first drew the gun I thought I’d only wound him, make him inoffensive. Shooting him in front of James didn’t feel like the right thing to do. But then he shot you, and pointed the gun at both you and James, and it didn’t seem like the time to hesitate anymore. I won’t be losing sleep over it. Two deaths, two kidnappings, and the way he threatened—”

He falls silent when James enters the room, leaving Sherlock to wonder whose name would have finished that sentence.

“Ready for bed?” John asks, looking back at James. “Do you want some chamomile?”

For a brief moment, it looks as though James will decline, but he finally nods. John stands and walks over to the kitchen, throwing a look over his shoulder.

“Sherlock?”

“Not for me, thanks.”

While John sets the kettle to boil, James comes to sit on the sofa.

“Are you going to play?” he asks, pointing at the violin in Sherlock’s hands. And then, more quietly, “I’ve missed listening to you play.”

Which makes Sherlock regrets his answer even more.

“I’m afraid not. Doctor’s order, until my arm is healed.”

“Oh. Of course. Sorry.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about.”

James shrugs. “Well without me you wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“Not in this specific way, but I’ve been hurt before, and I’ll be hurt again, I’m sure.”

“Not if I have a say in it,” John mutters from the kitchen, and James turns a thin smile toward him.

John was right, no resentment whatsoever. That’s… good. Isn’t it?

Can it be good that James does not seem to care at all that one of the last relatives he had was killed in front of him?

“James…”

Sherlock struggles to find the words. He asked, earlier today, if James wanted to talk about that man, and he deflected the conversation. Another attempt seems warranted.

“If you want to talk about—”

“He made me see a doctor,” James cuts in abruptly. “Some kind of therapist. And then he got really mad when he couldn’t force me to talk to him.”

It’s a warning if Sherlock ever heard one. He’s never forced James to talk about anything; now is not the time to start.

He doesn’t say another word, and James only offers a word of thanks to John when he receives his tea before saying good night and taking the mug up to his room. 

“Give him time,” John says softly.

He comes to stand between Sherlock’s knees and runs a hand through his hair, pushing back locks that immediately fall back in Sherlock’s eyes. Unbidden, heat rises in Sherlock’s cheeks as a sense memory takes over his mind. Last night, John made this very gesture when he was moving between Sherlock’s legs.

“I just…” 

He can’t think like this. Reaching for John’s hand before it makes another pass through his curls, Sherlock links their fingers and holds it still.

“I just wanted him to know he can still talk to me. I’m still listening.”

How ironic that James never talked to him as freely as when Sherlock couldn’t respond, when his mind was already too sleepy, too slow to even remember everything…

Something must show of his thoughts because John’s smile is even softer than his words.

“I’m sure he knows. Do _you_ know that I’m here and listening?”

The question takes Sherlock aback. How could he not know that? Hasn’t he been confiding in John?

“You didn’t sleep well last night,” John goes on. “Bad dreams?”

When Sherlock shakes his head, it’s not really a lie. He doesn’t remember what he dreamed about exactly, so he can’t say for sure they were bad dreams. But it’s true enough that he had a restless night.

“I just had a lot to process,” he says, squeezing John’s hand. “Still do, in fact.”

“Is that your way of saying you’re not coming to bed?”

The gentle humor in John’s eyes softens the question and allows Sherlock to answer without wondering if he’s ruining one of the best and most unbelievable things that ever happened to him.

“Not now, no.”

“You need sleep, Sherlock. You have a week’s worth to make up for.”

“I will. Just… later?”

“I’ll hold you to that. And come drag you to bed if I need to.”

The glint in his eyes when he leans down to press his lips to Sherlock’s claims he might enjoy that. So might Sherlock, he thinks as he watches John step away. Not tonight, though. He does intend to go to bed and rest. He just needs to do some mental cleaning first. 

Although ‘just’ might not be entirely accurate in this situation.

Every time he looks at James, he sees him with a wide hand at his throat and a gun at his temple. If Sherlock had said the wrong thing, if he hadn’t managed to draw Moriarty’s anger back to himself, if John hadn’t been such a good shot, if he hadn’t had a gun, if…

Too many ifs.

Too many ways this could have gone wrong, so very wrong…

He sets his violin back in its case and settles down on the sofa, fingertips joined under his chin, eyes half closed. One by one, he confronts each of those eventualities, proves to himself with sheer logic that things could not have gone any differently. It takes time, and more effort than it should. Fear, even delayed, is not conducive to feats of logic.

When, late into the night, light footsteps draw him from his thoughts, he thinks at first that John is putting his parting ‘threat’ into effect. Soon, though, he realizes that it’s James who is walking into the kitchen and, without bothering to turn on the lights, pouring himself a glass of water. Rather than drinking, though, he comes into the sitting room, stopping to lean back against John’s armchair.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says in a whisper so low that it wouldn’t wake Sherlock if he were asleep.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock replies, a rumbling of words.

If possible, James’ voice drops down even lower.

“What happened to your back?”

When James didn’t ask earlier, Sherlock thought he wouldn’t ask at all. It seems he was wrong. Has he been wondering all day?

For a moment, Sherlock wonders whether to answer at all. It’s hardly an appropriate bedtime story. Then again, James’ life to date hasn’t been a fairytale. And can Sherlock expect James to confide in him if he’s not ready to occasionally do the same?

“I was caught when I was in Serbia looking for Moran. My captors had a lot of questions.”

No need to be more specific than that. He doesn’t want those images in James’ head.

“Serbia?” James repeat, sounding confused. “We never were in Serbia.”

Sherlock lets out a quiet, joyless burst of laughter.

“I realized that, eventually. But a bit late.”

In the dim light that bathes the sitting room, he can guess more than see James rubbing his fingers against his collarbone.

“Does it still hurt?”

“No. They’re just scars. They stopped hurting a long time ago.”

“Do you…”

“Go ahead,” Sherlock prompts when James stalls, and even then long seconds pass before he finishes his question.

“Do you still think about Serbia?”

 _Too often_.

“Sometimes.” And that’s as much as he cares to say about this particular topic, so he tries to shift it. “Can I ask a question in return?”

James nods and gulps down water from the glass he still clutches. His swallow sounds loud in the silence.

“Why did he hit you?”

There’s no need to identify who ‘he’ is. James is already touching his face and bruised lip.

“Twice because I talked about you. He really didn’t like that.” After a pause, he adds, “And once because I told him about Father and Sebastian. He liked that even less. And he didn’t believe me. It was stupid. Why would I have lied about something like that?”

Sherlock has no answer.

“I think he must have hit my father too,” James continues, back to this quiet voice that’s barely even a murmur. “The way he did it… it was like… he wasn’t even thinking about it. Just… doing what he was used to.”

And still no answer.

“So… his father hit him, and he hit me. Does that mean if I ever have kids I’ll—”

“No,” Sherlock interrupts, and this answer is easy.

“You can’t know for sure—”

“Yes, I can.” Sherlock sits up the better to look at James. “I do know. Because you’re worried about it now. And because you’re _nothing_ like either of them.”

A slightly louder breath could almost be a sigh of relief.

“I should go back to bed,” James says softly.

“Yes, you should. We’ll have to leave early now that we don’t have a car service at our disposal anymore.”

It’s a feeble joke, but it still draws a faint smile to James’ lips. Sherlock expected protests earlier when he said he’d accompany James to school from now on, but all James asked was whether John would come along too.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night.”

When he finally goes to bed too, Sherlock tries not to wish James had punctuated that good night with something other than his name. That’s all right, he thinks as he curls up behind John. He’ll wait as long as he needs to. James is his son, whether he calls him ‘Dad’ or not.


	3. Worries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep poking and prodding this chapter and it's still not what i wanted it to be, but then transition chapters rarely are. Hopefuly it's readable.

Breakfast, that morning, is a quiet affair. Sherlock can’t help but remember how James’ first day at school ended, and he’s ready to bet he’s not the only one drawing a parallel with his return to school today. James’ reaction when Sherlock hands him his phone back is proof of that.

“Do you want me to keep it with me all day?”

He’s thumbing the screen as he asks; checking his messages, maybe? Sherlock deleted everything that man sent, along with James’ replies, but hopefully that’s not what he’s looking for.

“You’re not supposed to have it with you,” John says before Sherlock can reply.

“But you can if you want to,” Sherlock amends, ignoring the eye roll John sends his way. “I put in my new number in the contacts.”

After a brief look up at Sherlock, James is looking at the phone again, his shoulders drooping just a bit.

“Sorry about getting yours smashed,” he mumbles. “I figured they wouldn’t let me keep—”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock cuts in. “I told you, you don’t need to keep apologizing. Are you done? We should go.”

They take the tube; traffic is heavy at this hour and a cab might not make it on time. Besides, the station is only two streets away from the school. As soon as it’s in sight, James slows down, then stops, eyeing both Sherlock and John with something that seems very close to pleading. 

“You don’t have to take me all the way to the gates. And you don’t have to accompany me every day. Or come get me. I’ll be fine taking the tube by myself. All right?”

“No, that’s not all right,” Sherlock starts, only to stop when John rests a hand on his arm.

He looks at him, frowning slightly, and gets a thin smile in return.

“You two can debate later,” John says. “He’s going to be late if he doesn’t go now.”

Grudgingly admitting that John is right about that, Sherlock waves James off, though not without a reminder that they’ll be there at four. James doesn’t protest, but that little twist to his lips promises that he will, sooner rather than later.

They watch him hurry to the school proper, and even after he’s disappeared past the gates along with a crowd of other students Sherlock has some trouble looking away. His fists tighten inside his pockets and his gaze goes up, searching – and finding – CCTV cameras.

“He’ll be fine,” John says. His hand, which never lifted from Sherlock’s arm, squeezes once before pulling gently until Sherlock turns away. “The school is still under surveillance, isn’t it?”

Sherlock nods absently. “The son of a foreign ambassador and the two daughters of government officials. Not that the surveillance stopped James before.”

Thinking about it again, about those too long minutes when they didn’t know where James was, and the even worse time after that when they found him with a gun in his hands, it’s all Sherlock can do not to find an excuse to enter the school and follow James from class to class.

“But _before_ ,” John says, still tugging on Sherlock’s arm until he starts moving, “he had a reason to run off. A misguided one, I’ll give you that much, but still a reason. That reason is gone. He wants to live with us. He said so out right. Or didn’t you believe him?”

Sighing, Sherlock falls into step with John. He does nothing to shake off his hand. It’s a strangely comforting weight on his arm.

“I did believe him.” After a beat, he mutters, “And I know I’m being irrational. That doesn’t make it any easier to stop.”

John turns his face away, though not before Sherlock catches him grinning.

“What?” he says, suddenly defensive. “What’s so funny?”

“Not funny per se, just… I never want to hear you say again you don’t know how to be a father.”

Which doesn’t explain John’s grin at all, but it’s hard to demand clarification when John suddenly stops on the pavement and, without warning, grabs the back of Sherlock’s neck and draws him close for a harsh kiss. By the time John releases him, Sherlock’s face feels very hot, and he’s not quite sure what he meant to say.

“Go on, then,” John says, his voice a little deeper than usual. “Raise your arm and summon a cab out of nowhere so we can be on our way.”

Sherlock huffs, but he’s a bit out of breath and it sounds like a sigh.

“Now who’s being irrational?” he asks, but gets a snicker in reply when he does raise his arm and a cab stops almost at once.

They end up at New Scotland Yard, though not for anything as satisfying as a good case. Lestrade claimed he wanted to talk about some new element in Molly’s kidnapping, but that doesn’t last long and he’s quickly in full questioning mode. John informed him yesterday that James was back, but a quick phone call wasn’t enough for him and he wants a full account of what happened – which, of course, they can’t give him.

“What does it matter to you how we got him back?” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes, after Lestrade asks the same thing for the third time.

“How could it not matter to me?” Lestrade sounds tired. “Never mind that I’ve got a mutilated corpse, two dead bodies and two kidnappings all linked and with no beginning of a lead. He’s my friend’s kid. Of course I want to know what happened.”

Sherlock’s mouth opens, but he finds himself at a loss for words. He sits back in the chair, observing Lestrade across the desk. He means that. He’s not just delivering a line to get something to put in his report about this whole fiasco. Days ago, he figured out who James’ father was, but now that knowledge seems irrelevant to him.

It’s… unexpected. And slightly disconcerting.

In front of Sherlock’s continued silence, John clears his throat.

“Let’s just say someone wanted James very much, but he didn’t care to stay with them, and we persuaded them to give him back. Right, Sherlock?”

“Hmm. Yes. Right.”

Lestrade looks nonplussed, but he finally seems to accept he won’t get any better than this explanation.

“So… The whole thing is over, now? No more messages on crime scenes? And where is James anyway?”

“Yes it is over,” Sherlock says curtly. “And he is where he should be. In school.”

 _That_ draws a frankly disbelieving snort from Lestrade.

“Since when is school the place he should be? Just a few months ago you said—”

Standing abruptly, Sherlock interrupts him. “Is there anything else, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade shakes his head and sighs. “Nothing else. I’m glad he’s back. And safe.”

With a sharp nod, Sherlock leaves. He’s already in the elevator, holding the door open and getting fairly impatient, when John finally leaves the office and joins him.

“Bit rude,” John chides as the doors close. “He really was worried. About James and about you.”

“About me?” Sherlock scoffs. “Why would he be worried about me?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” John’s voice grows colder with each word. “Because he cares about you? Because you said only two dozen words the entire time James was gone, and most of them were monosyllabic? Because you weren’t sleeping, were barely eating, and you—”

The metal doors open and John cuts himself off abruptly. He takes a deep breath and walks out. Sherlock doesn’t react right away. He’s so slow in moving, actually, that the doors start closing on him. He shakes himself into motion and stops them, getting out after John. He catches up with him outside.

He’s been so busy worrying about James, he didn’t notice that something was bothering John. He asked about the obvious – about shooting that man – but it didn’t occur to him to go back further than that.

“John?”

Standing on the sidewalk with his hands behind his back, John acknowledges him with a nod.

Should Sherlock apologize? For what, exactly? Being himself? John told him he didn’t have to change. The way he reacted to James’ disappearance was the only way he knew how to react, the only way he knew how to process things. And John knows what he’s like, doesn’t he? He loves him anyway; he said he wouldn’t leave, too.

But just now, in the elevator…

“John,” Sherlock says again, and still doesn’t know how to continue.

“Feeling a bit peckish,” John says, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Angelo’s?”

It’s not until they’re sitting at their usual table, the waitress walking away with their order, that Sherlock finally finds the words. Or at least, some words.

“I never meant for anyone to worry,” he says slowly. “And especially not you. I was just…” He struggles before settling on a perfectly imperfect description of how he felt only days ago. “Upset.”

John nods, fiddling with his fork. 

“I know you were. Nothing more normal. But do you understand that it’s also normal for the people who care about you to be concerned when you don’t take care of yourself?”

Understanding it is not the problem…

“Before I came back, there never were people who cared enough about me to be worried. It still feels strange that anyone would be.”

For a long moment, John does nothing more than stare at him, to the point that Sherlock wonders if he’s made some kind of mistake.

“You actually believe that,” John finally says, sounding incredulous. “Mrs. Hudson. Your brother. Lestrade. Molly. Me, for that matter. Do you think we only started worrying about you when you came back? Can you really not see that we cared long before that?”

The waitress bringing their plates and refilling their barely touched glasses gives Sherlock a moment to consider the question.

Objectively, he knows John is right. Yes, there were some people who cared about his physical and mental well-being before he went away and returned. But subjectively, it never occurred to him to see it that way. His brother always liked to meddle and interfere, ever since they were children; if he has a vice, it’s power, and he likes few things better than to wield it over Sherlock. Lestrade worried about the drugs because he needed Sherlock sober. Molly was always blinded by the crush she projected onto him. Mrs. Hudson never had a child and fussing over him satisfies her maternal instincts. For John, it was always his caretaker tendencies that Sherlock used to explain signs of worry. For all of them, the reasons for worry seemed to come from them, rather than from Sherlock. 

Unless he was wrong? Unless they cared back then the same way they do today, and for the same reason – for him? But if he was wrong, why couldn’t he see it until now?

The answer is, literally, staring him in the face. It wasn’t until he himself worried enough about someone to potentially give his life for him that he truly understood. 

“I might have misjudged the degree to which others care about me,” he concedes in the end.

Snorting quietly, John picks up his fork and starts eating. Under the table, his foot finds Sherlock’s and presses tightly against it. It stays there until they leave.

*

At four o’clock, as promised, they’re back at the school – although, as a small concession, they don’t get any closer than where they left James that morning. When he appears at the gates, Sherlock has to stifle a sigh of relief. It’s not that he truly thought James would run away but the possibility was right there, at the back of his mind.

James walks out alone, while many of his peers are coming out in chattering pairs or groups. He spots them and starts toward them, but stops and turns back when someone calls his name. A girl runs up to him and they talk for a few moments before she waves goodbye and walks over to a waiting car.

“Don’t start deducing her in front of him,” John says as James starts toward them again. “Tell me later.”

Sherlock huffs. “Don’t be dull, John.”

The truth is, he was too far to get much, although he suspects that might have been the French girl James mentioned before. The hint of pink still tinting his cheeks when he reaches them certainly hints it was.

“How was French class?” Sherlock can’t help asking, earning himself an amused look from John.

James’ blush redoubles even as he answers with a small shrug.

“Fine. All my classes were fine. Even math.”

They don’t get much more from him – not that it’s a surprise to Sherlock. He doesn’t remember his school days as worthy of being narrated with any sort of details. Besides, once James realizes they’re going to Bart’s, he’s thoroughly distracted.

“Do we have a case then? Have you been working on it while I was in school?”

If only. But no, like their small trip to NSY, this is mostly a social visit – although Sherlock has a small hope of smuggling out something interesting. It’s been far too long since he ran some experiments.

“Molly asked if we’d drop by,” John explains. “She’s been very worried about you.”

He glances at Sherlock on the word ‘worried,’ a small reminder of their conversation earlier. She wasn’t only worried about James. What Sherlock is supposed to do about it, he isn’t quite sure.

What he’s supposed to do to make it up to John, he doesn’t know either.

Molly fusses over James when they get there, hugging him, babbling at him, repeating how worried she was, how bad she felt that she let herself be used against him, to which James tries to assure her none of it was her fault. Another hug seems to calm her down.

Is that the answer, then? Physical contact to negate feelings of worry? John has been more affectionate in the past couple of days – or is it a simple consequence of their developing intimacy?

Troubled, Sherlock forgets to even check if there’s anything of interest in the morgue for him to acquire.

Back in Baker Street, they find a parcel that was dropped off by one of Mycroft’s minions, with James’ book and ereader. He plugs the device and charges it while he does his homework, and it’s only after dinner that he finally turns it on.

“You sent me a message.”

Lost in his thoughts, Sherlock doesn’t realize James is talking to him until John nudges him with his foot.

“What? Yes. Didn’t you see it when I first sent it?”

James shakes his head. “I kept checking at first but I ran down the battery and I didn’t have the charger. I didn’t know if you got the message, or if you’d understand it.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Or if you’d want to come for me after what I did.”

Was it two or three days that the skip code message waited in Sherlock’s inbox to be noticed and decoded?

“Of course we were going to come for you,” John says. “That was never in question.”

James nods as though to agree it’s obvious, but his words say something else.

“I just didn’t know for sure. Especially since you didn’t answer. Or at least not right away.”

“It was my fault,” Sherlock admits. “I was so focused on finding a lead, I didn’t think to look for one in my inbox. I’m sorry.”

For two days, he’s been telling James to stop apologizing. It never occurred to him that he might want to apologize, too. But when the response to his words is a quick, awkward hug, he can only tell himself that maybe the words were a needed step on their path to normalcy, whether he does have something to apologize for or not.

Later on, when James has gone to bed, Sherlock says those same, simple words to John. He can’t make any promises as to the future, but he _is_ sorry he upset John, even without meaning to. Again, he gets a hug in reply for his apology, although this one is much less awkward – and much less chaste.


	4. Domesticity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No promises as to when the next chapter will come but this one was half written when my little elf arrived so it wasn't too hard to finish even while sleep deprived :P

The fifth step creaks, so Sherlock is careful to skip it as he goes up the stairs to James’ room. He stands behind the door, his head leaning a little toward it, listening intently. It’d be a lot easier to simply peek in, of course, but opening the door to James’ room in the middle of the night to the risk of waking him up does not strike him as a particularly good idea.

Yesterday, he could hear James’ sleepy muttering before he even reached the door, unhappy words of protests that made Sherlock’s fists and heart clench. He debated waking him up, but in the end didn’t as it would have been hard to explain why he’d been standing there in the first place. James’ eyes were darkened by deep circles in the morning, though he didn’t allude to having a bad night and Sherlock didn’t bring it up either. A few more days and he’ll be free to pick up his bow again.

Tonight, it’s a couple of minutes before Sherlock hears the light squeaking of the mattress springs that indicates James shifted. Nothing more than that light squeak; a better night than yesterday, hopefully. He goes back down, skipping the creaky step again on his way back to bed.

Still as quiet as he knows how to be, he tiptoes into his bedroom. He’s about to slip into bed next to John when he realizes John’s breathing pattern is not the one he adopts in his sleep. He pauses for a second before lying down, offering a quiet, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

John makes a small noise in his throat that could mean just about anything. He nudges at Sherlock’s arm until Sherlock rolls onto his side and moves closer, his chest to Sherlock’s back, his arm around him.

“How long will you keep checking he’s still there in the middle of the night?” he asks against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Unseen, Sherlock smiles grimly in the dark. Is he really so transparent?

“Until I stop waking up wondering if he’s gone.”

John’s sigh tickles the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Sherlock—”

“I know. We’ve already had this conversation.”

Another sigh.

“Trust him. If you don’t, he’ll figure it out soon enough. How do you think he’d react to that?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock mutters, but that’s not the entire truth. He knows James would be hurt. And he knows it wouldn’t help anything in the long run. “It’s not that I don’t trust him. I just…”

Six months ago, it wouldn’t even have occurred to him he’d ever feel this way, but here he is. The thought of losing James – again – is terrifying.

“I know,” John says when Sherlock doesn’t finish. He says it again, even more quietly now. “I know.”

Sherlock never doubts that he does.

The next night, when he wakes up with his heart thundering and his mind in shambles, John’s arm is there, tightening around him, holding him back when he tries to get out of bed. It takes a while, but Sherlock eventually falls asleep again without going to check that James is in his room.

*

The argument goes on for almost two weeks. Sherlock lets it. He’d let it go on for a lot longer than that if needed.

He could demand that James let it drop, tell him in no uncertain terms that there is no way in hell he is taking the tube on his own to school and back and arguing about it won’t change Sherlock’s mind. Use the right tone of voice and James’s only reply would be ‘yes, sir’, Sherlock would bet anything on it.

And he knows with just as much certainty that it’d send them a dozen steps backward.

So, he responds to James’ repetitive points about his age and how responsible he is with the equally repetitive counterpoints that thirteen isn’t very old at all and the issue isn’t whether James can be trusted or not but the fact that an alarming percentage of London’s overall population, in Sherlock’s professional opinion, cannot.

John, despite James’ attempts to draw him into the argument, is careful to stay out of it, although once, when he and Sherlock are alone, he asks how old James will need to be before Sherlock relents. Sherlock doesn’t really have an answer. Or if he does, he knows it’s not one he should voice. But twenty is a nice, round number.

The standoff comes to an end with an unexpected offer.

“And they’d do that every day?” Sherlock asks, skeptical.

“Yes. Laure said it’d be no problem. They drive close-by anyway so it’s only a small detour.”

As always, there’s just a hint of pink in James’ cheeks when he says the girl’s name. It took him two days to tell them what ‘the girl in French class’ was called, and it’s clear he’s still as taken with her as he was on his first trial day at school, if not more so.

And if somehow she offered to pick him up on the way to school every day the reverse might be true as well.

Sherlock doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say yes either. He can’t, not when he doesn’t have all the information he needs yet. The next day, as school lets out, he approaches the car before James and his friend have even come out.

“Now play nice,” John says, sounding rather amused. “Whatever you figure out, if you embarrass them James won’t be happy with you.”

An excellent point; Sherlock puts on his best shamming smile and is nothing if not courteous when he introduces himself and John to Laure’s mother. She’s friendly in return, hinting that she’s read about them in newspapers though without saying so straight out. From her accent, she’s originally from the south of France but lived in Paris for at least five years, probably more than ten. She followed husband number two – not Laure’s father – to London three to four years ago. She doesn’t work, which gives her plenty of time to look for husband number three while her current spouse is out of the country for work.

Sherlock holds his tongue about all of it, even after they’ve shaken hands goodbye and retrieved their respective teenagers. 

“So?” James asks on the way home, wary but hopeful. “Can I ride with them?”

“Let me think about it,” Sherlock replies.

He’s already texted the woman’s name and license plate number to Mycroft. He could check up on her himself, but this should be faster. And indeed, by the time they get home an email and several attachments are waiting in his inbox. Nothing there to warrant his opposition, and he has to agree that James may ride to school with his friend every day. In return, James promises to stop complaining about Sherlock and John picking him up since his friend goes to some enrichment program after school rather than home.

“Maybe James should attend one of those enrichment things,” he muses aloud later that night.

As smart as he is, he certainly could use more stimulation than his classes offer him.

John looks up from his laptop where he’s typing his latest blog entry. His eyes sparkle, and his quiet laugh surprises Sherlock.

“You mean, on top of private music lessons, hands-on anatomy at Bart’s, riding at the centre and running around with us for cases?”

So maybe John has a point – again – and James’ schedule is already bordering on full. Besides, getting James to an after-school program might prove tricky seeing how busy Sherlock and John are these days. The beginning of the year, after the lull of the holidays, always seems to bring out some truly strange cases, if not always interesting ones. After ignoring his inbox during the Moriarty debacle, Sherlock is now working his way through the backlog, at John’s urging. John’s sudden interest in solving as many cases as possible is all too easy to figure out: he’s keeping Sherlock busy and distracted, so he won’t worry too much about James. Sherlock can’t fault him on that, especially since it means running around town together the way they used to, before their lives changed so much.

“In the summer, then,” Sherlock amends his initial thought. “So he doesn’t get bored.”

“Right, because as we know there’s nothing worse than being bored.”

John laughs again, more of a chuckle than a full laugh, quiet and happy, and it strikes Sherlock out of the blue that _happy_ is exactly what John has been lately. He smiles more, laughs more, sometimes hums absently under his breath. Even two days ago, when he went out on his own without saying where he was going, coming back with graveyard mud staining his shoes and pollen on his sleeve, the familiar tightness around his eyes and at the corners of his lips didn’t make a reappearance.

He’s happy. 

Sherlock makes him happy.

And he doesn’t even know how.

“What is it?” John asks, still smiling, tilting his head as he observes Sherlock. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Ghosts don’t exist.”

What Sherlock doesn’t say is that he’d be less shocked to come face to face with a ghost than he still is at the thought that he, Sherlock Holmes, can make anyone happy.

It is a rather nice thought, however.

*

As January rolls into February, a routine slowly establishes itself. Sherlock can’t recall a time in his life when everything was so… domestic. He can’t recall ever thinking he’d enjoy any such thing as domesticity or routine. Either he’s getting old or his years away from London have changed him more than he even realized. Or maybe it was a case of not knowing what he needed until it fell on him unexpectedly.

He’s musing about it when James comes out of the school on a rather chilly Thursday afternoon. Even from where he’s standing down the street, Sherlock can see him smiling as he talks to three other students. He made friends fast, both boys and girls. He, too, seems happy, even if bad dreams still darken his eyes, sometimes. A few days ago, he stayed up long past his usual bedtime, reading on the sofa while glancing at Sherlock every so often. He didn’t actually ask Sherlock to play for him, but when Sherlock picked up his violin he did relax considerably, and eventually fell asleep right there. Sherlock drew a blanket over him before playing a while longer.

“Where’s John?” James asks as he joins Sherlock and they start down the street together.

When Sherlock replies, “Visiting Mary,” he can see from the corner of his eye that James’ smile falters. For no reason Sherlock can understand, he doesn’t seem to like hearing about Mary. It’s a little while before he speaks again.

“Can I go see a movie with my friends on Saturday?”

“And skip riding?”

“No, after riding. And we were thinking about having dinner together afterward. Would that be okay? I won’t stay out very late. And there’ll be four of us, plus Leo’s brother and his friend, and they’re eighteen so don’t say I’m too young to be out on my own. And Leo’s brother will be driving us so I won’t be anywhere near the tube. So, can I?”

“May I,” Sherlock corrects absently.

His first instinct is to say no, because eighteen doesn’t seem quite old enough to supervise a bunch of teenagers, but he notices the desperately hopeful look James is giving him and it strikes him that he’s never seen James look quite like this before. He really wants to go. What’s so special about going to see a movie and having fast food with friends?

All the way back to Baker Street, Sherlock prods and questions, getting out of an increasingly reluctant James every detail he can think of asking, from the names of his friends to the movie they want to see and where they plan to eat afterward. His suggestion that they could go to an earlier showing and be back before evening is met with extreme reticence and a mutinous, “Everyone else already has permission, I can’t ask them to change our plans now.”

Which means they’ve been planning this for at least a few days but James only asked Sherlock today, two days before the outing. Why?

“Because I knew you’d be like this,” James says dejectedly. “Asking all these questions and in the end you’re going to say no, aren’t you? You don’t even care what Saturday is.”

Without waiting for an answer, James goes up to his room, leaving Sherlock perplexed. What’s special about Saturday? The question bothers him enough that as soon as John comes home, he asks, “What happens on Saturday?”

One arm still in his coat, John gives him a surprised look.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think you’d care to celebrate. Flowers and candy isn’t really our style, is it?”

Bewildered, Sherlock frowns at him. “Flowers and candy? What do you mean?”

John frowns right back. “Valentine’s Day? Isn’t that what you were asking about? What are we doing on Valentine’s Day?”

Several thoughts flood Sherlock’s mind at the same time.

John doesn’t expect anything special on Valentine’s Day. Thank God for that.

He did however take note of the date and thought about it enough to tell himself not to expect anything.

He might, in fact, not completely mind marking the day in some fashion.

He usually visits the graveyard on Saturdays while James is at the riding centre, so this departure from his routine might mean he was leaving the day open for ‘flowers and candy’ – or whatever else.

And then there’s the fact that James wants to go out with friends on that day. Three boys and three girls. Three couples. A triple date? One of the girls is Laure.

That last point is the easiest to solve. A few weeks ago, Sherlock would have said no, but he’s relaxed a little since then. And he can’t say no, can he? Not when it’s obviously so important to James. Not when it might be his first date with his first crush. Not when he’s had so few experiences typical for a boy his age.

Although Sherlock will have to check on that eighteen year old chaperone first. Or maybe get someone from his homeless network to trail the group and report to him. Or maybe trail them himself…

On the other hand, what to do about what John might or might not expect? Does he truly not want to mark the day in any fashion or does he simply expect that _Sherlock_ doesn’t want to?

Would it be a mistake to prove him right? Or would it be better to surprise him?

Before long, Sherlock finds himself wishing that a movie and dinner were things he had any interest in doing, even with John.

Although it _has_ been a while since they went out to Angelo’s for dinner just the two of them…


	5. Valentine's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the ridiculously long time it took to post this. I've had to focus a bit on the kind of writing that puts food in my fridge. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long.
> 
> The first part of the chapter was inspired by [Of Windsor Knots and Polyester Fashion Failings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3196532) by DulcimerGecko.

Sherlock slips another slide under the microscope and adjusts the eyepiece. He observes the drop of liquid for a moment but makes no note. His eyes might be on his experiment, but his ears and his full attention are directed at his bedroom and the two people in there.

John, for some unfathomable reason, decided he has to wear a tie to dinner. They're only going to Angelo's, as he knows quite well, so a tie is hardly required, but all he did was smile when Sherlock pointed it out. He smiled considerably less when James told him he'd done the knot wrong again, and the tie didn't work with his shirt anyway.

Why James is so interested in what John might wear is another thing that baffles Sherlock, but interested he is as he offered to help John pick a more suitable tie, and when John admitted his one other tie is the same color, he went up to his room and came back with presumably better choices. John, by the sound of it, is not convinced.

“That pattern is a bit... bold, isn't it?”

“Not with a plain shirt. Don't you want to try it?”

“I guess so.”

“Let me tie it for you.”

“It's all right, I can do it myself. What?”

“You're still not very good at it.”

“You know, I did wear ties before I knew you and no one ever said I did it wrong.”

“They should have because the way you do it, it’s sloppy. Here, let me.”

“That's a lot fancier than you usually wear your ties.”

“Well I don't need fancy to go to school, do I? How do you like the pattern now?”

“You were right, it does work. Thank you.”

Unseen, Sherlock grimaces. Is he supposed to comment about the tie? Compliment its choice or appearance when he knows James is responsible for both? Pretend he likes it when he doesn't care for ties? Worse - will John expect him to wear one as well?

This whole thing was a terrible idea. Canceling without a good reason, however, seems like a worse one. For the hundredth time in the past half hour he checks his phone, just in case he missed a message from Lestrade coming through. An excuse to cancel would be welcome.

Would he, though?

“We don’t have to go, you know.”

Sherlock looks up to find John leaning against the chair opposite him, a strange smile curling one corner of his mouth. The tie around his neck is a deep burgundy color with wide cream stripes, done in a perfect trinity knot. 

“If you’ve got other things to do,” he adds, and lets the rest of that offer hang between them.

Sherlock is all too aware that James is observing them from just a step behind John. He decided not to go riding today after overhearing that Sherlock and John would be going on what Sherlock is still reluctant to call a date. He’s been observing them all day, it seems. Making sure Sherlock doesn’t mess things up with John? Or is it a more personal need – seeing what a good relationship should look like?

Either way, Sherlock can’t disappoint him – and he can’t disappoint John. Whatever he says to the contrary, if he bothered with a tie this must mean something to him.

“No, I don’t have anything else on. But it is a bit early for you to get ready, isn’t it?”

John smiles and glances at his watch. “Not that much.” He turns to James. “What about you? Aren’t you going to be late?”

“No, I’m waiting for—”

A chime interrupts him; the text he was waiting for.

“They’re here,” he says, hurrying to the hallway to grab his coat. “Bye. See you later.”

And just like that, he’s rushing down the steps before Sherlock can say… What, exactly? Be safe? Have fun? Call if you need to? 

Is any of it anything James wants or needs to hear, or would he only be embarrassed by Sherlock’s over protectiveness? He was certainly put off when Sherlock asked for the name of the chaperone and had Mycroft check him out.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s already climbing into the car. Sherlock and John watch him leave from behind the sitting room window.

“He’ll be fine,” John says, resting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and while Sherlock replies, “Of course,” he still can’t silence that little voice at the back of his mind that can’t help but worry.

Yesterday, John pointedly showed him some psychology articles and they all say that, at James’ age, some independence is necessary. An outing like this one, in a group, with a curfew, is supposed to be a good thing.

No article he read, however, was about a child with James’ past.

“Are you ready?” John asks suddenly.

Blinking out of his thoughts, Sherlock frowns at him. “Ready? For what?”

The strangest little smile curls John’s lips.

“Dinner. I called Angelo and changed our reservation.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks, mystified.

John’s smile widens ever so slightly. “Because I thought it’d be nice to be back home early. You know, have the flat to ourselves. Not have to worry about noise.”

A raised eyebrow asks Sherlock what he thinks. He thinks it’s a marvelously brilliant idea.

*

Angelo fusses over them, but that’s hardly anything new. In fact, none of this is new. They’ve eaten at Angelo’s dozens of times. More often than not, there was a candle on the table. They both usually stick to their favorite dishes. This is just one outing like many others.

Does the date make it any different?

John’s smile certainly hints that it does.

When Angelo asks, a little too pointedly and with a wink, if they want to have their dessert here or take it home, Sherlock unexpectedly feels his face flush. John answers, his tone perfectly calm but a little light dancing in his eyes.

“We’ll take it home. Thank you, Angelo.”

Twenty minutes later, the box is on the kitchen floor, the tiramisu spilling out, but neither Sherlock nor John cares all that much, not when their hands are as busy as their mouths, John pressing Sherlock against the closed door as though he’s never going to let go.

They’re at the point when they either need to take things to the bedroom or just commit to staying here until the end when a distinctive chime rises from the folds of Sherlock’s jacket on the floor, John’s tie like a dash across it. They both freeze.

“That’s—” John starts.

“James,” Sherlock finishes.

John pulls back and runs his fingers through his hair. He looks as frustrated as Sherlock feels. There’s no hesitation from either of them, however. If James is calling, it’s bound to be important.

Except that, when Sherlock takes the call, it’s not James at the other end of the line.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Girl’s voice. Tiny edge of a French accent.

“Laure? Where’s James? Is he all right?”

“I… No, he’s not all right. He’s shaking and he’s breathing funny. I don’t know what to do.”

Sherlock closes his eyes tight.

“Where are you?”

“We’re still at the theater. In the lobby. What should I do?”

“Stay close. Talk to him. Just… don’t touch him. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

When he opens his eyes again, John is in front of him, his expression grim. Without a word, he hands Sherlock his coat.

“Did she say what happened?” he asks as they leave the flat.

“I doubt she even knows.”

Does James knows? Will he tell them if he does?

Finding a cab proves more difficult than usual – the effect of this silly holiday, no doubt – so it takes them longer than Sherlock would like to get to the cinema. Good thing he asked James exactly where they were going.

Sherlock is silent during the cab ride, fingers drumming on his thigh in his impatience. John doesn’t say a word either, but he reaches across the seat and briefly squeezes Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock looks at him. The flames that burned in John’s eyes only half an hour ago are gone, but it’s the same affection in them, in his small smile. When he starts to pull his hand away, Sherlock closes his fingers over John’s and holds on.

They finally get there. Before the cab even stops, Sherlock can see James and Laure, standing on the sidewalk close to the theater’s entrance and out of the way of pedestrian traffic. 

“He looks all right,” John says.

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He’s already stepping out of the cab, trusting that John will take care of the fare.

‘All right’ is relative, Sherlock thinks as he approaches the two teens. James is breathing normally, so that’s definitely a plus. He’s listening to something Laure is saying and nodding, the faintest of smiles painted on his lips, and that has to be good, too. But his eyes seem dark and dull, and under the neon lights of the marquee he seems much too pale.

He notices Sherlock approaching, and his smile, as faint as it was, disappears. He stands a little straighter, and Sherlock wonders if it’s conscious on his part.

“I’m sorry,” James blurts out before Sherlock can say anything.

Laure, Sherlock notices, immediately throws James a slight frown. What does she think of this whole episode?

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sherlock assures him. “How are you feeling?”

James shrugs. “Embarrassed.”

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about either,” Laure says. “It’s not like asthma attacks are anything you can control.”

So, that’s what he told her. If she knew anything about asthma, Sherlock has no doubt she’d see through the lie, but she seems convinced enough. And John, coming up to them, confirms the lie easily.

“Very true,” he says. “Even with medication asthma can be difficult to manage.”

James nods absently, though he doesn’t look at any of them, his gaze directed at the pavement.

There’s a brief silence. If Laure was not there, Sherlock would ask any of the dozen questions on the tip of his tongue, but her presence stops him. Some things, she doesn’t need to know, or even wonder about, not unless and until James decides otherwise.

“We should go home,” he says. 

“I guess so,” James replies. He sounds disappointed, understandably so. His first date, if that’s what it was, didn’t exactly go all that well. He looks at Laure and gives a small shrug. “Thanks for walking out with me. I bet they’ll let you back in since you have your ticket. There’s got to be an hour left to the movie.”

She shakes her head. “Nah. I didn’t really want to see it anyway.”

“Then why…”

James doesn’t finish his question. If the answer wasn’t obvious already, Laure’s reddening cheeks would be enough of a clue.

Leaving her alone, John points out, would not be a good idea, so they split up. He takes a cab to get her home, and Sherlock takes another one to take James back to Baker Street. Three times, in the cab, he opens his mouth to ask James a question. Three times, he changes his mind. Better wait until they’re alone.

But when they get home, when he sees the tiramisu forgotten on the floor, James says the same thing again.

“I’m really sorry. I never meant to ruin your date.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Sherlock starts, then corrects himself. “You didn’t ruin anything. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

James grimaces and plops himself down onto the sofa.

“You know what happened. I made a fool of myself.”

“Stop it.”

Sherlock didn’t mean to come this close to snapping, nor did he want to cause James to jump in startlement, but he doesn’t apologize and goes on.

“It wasn’t your fault, you have nothing to be embarrassed about and you didn’t make a fool of yourself. You had a panic attack, something you can neither control nor anticipate. Getting upset about it can only make things worse in the long run.”

For long seconds, James merely stares at Sherlock, his face expressionless. There’s very little Sherlock wouldn’t give to be able to know what he’s thinking. 

“The movie,” he finally says, his voice as blank as his expression. “There was a moment when someone said something Sebastian used to say. Not something he said to me in particular, just… an expression he liked. That’s all it took. Anybody could say that, anywhere, anytime, and it could happen again. And that’s just so… so… stupid!”

The blankness is gone, replaced by anger. Sherlock likes that a lot better. James should be angry. What happened to him wasn’t fair or right.

“It’s not stupid,” Sherlock says, perching himself on the arm of John’s armchair. “It means you’re still healing. And of course you are. It’s barely been a few months.”

Sometimes, it feel like a lot more time than that passed since James entered Sherlock's life, but it's barely been half a year.

“How long is it going to take, then?”

The yearning in James’ voice makes Sherlock ache, even more so because he has no answer.

“I don’t know.”

“But it’ll pass, right?” James presses on. “Someday I’ll just… forget about him, right? And not have panic attacks anymore?”

_I hope so,_ Sherlock would say if he was entirely truthful, but it’s not what James needs to hear right now, is it?

“Someday,” he repeats quietly. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, and I don’t know what I or anyone else could do to help, but it’ll fade. You’ll make good memories and they’ll crowd out the bad ones. It might take time, but it’ll get better.”

He puts all of his conviction in those words; he really wants James to believe this. More importantly, he _needs_ James to believe it. If he doesn’t believe, how long until it occurs to him to dull everything with a bit of chemical help?

After what seems like interminable seconds, James gives a tiny nod.

“I’m tired,” he says as he stands. “I’ll go to bed now.”

It’s still very early, but Sherlock doesn’t point that out. He’s sure James is aware of it. Maybe he needs some time to himself.

“Good night,” he offers, already thinking tonight might be a good night for some violin.

James is just past the door when he stops and looks back into the sitting room, his face suddenly a little flushed.

“Do you think… Should I send Laure a text? You know, to thank her for helping.”

Sherlock might be the least qualified person to answer this, but he gives it a try.

“She’d probably like that.”

“Or should I call her?”

“She might like that too.”

With another nod, James turns away. Sherlock is about to tell him not to stay on the phone too late, but he holds his tongue. If talking to the girl makes James happy, Sherlock certainly won’t stop him.

Picking up his violin, he stands by the window and plays whatever wants to rise under his bow. He keeps playing, one piece of music after the other, until a cab stops in front of 221B and John steps out. He looks up to the window, and when he sees Sherlock, he smiles. 

Sherlock sets the violin down. He doesn’t bother closing the case. Later, he’ll come back to it and play into the night. But for now, he and John have a date.


	6. Forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a transitional chapter. We should get into the thick of things within a couple chapters.

It’s a nine.

At the very least an eight, but probably a nine.

It’s the best, the most interesting, most fascinating, most challenging case Sherlock has been presented since his return to London. Not since the days of his duels with Moriarty has Sherlock been so thoroughly engrossed and entertained – not that he’d say as much aloud. He’s learned a few things about holding his tongue since that time.

At first sight, it’s the overly simple murder of a retired soldier, easily attributed to his wife as they were supposedly alone in a room at the time, with the maid listening to their argument. But John knew the man, and he knows the wife, and he’s utterly convinced that, as she has claimed since asking for their help, she’s innocent. Sherlock believes her, not because of John’s certitude but rather because of some clues – but he does not believe her assertion that she has no idea who might be the murderer if she’s innocent.

It’s at least an eight, probably a nine, with a delicate soil analysis at Bart’s that has already taken three hours and is still not finished – and James’ school day will end in less than half an hour, just enough time for Sherlock and John to get there. Except that if Sherlock leaves his experiment, he’ll risk losing it all, and John needs to go see the woman and ask her a couple more questions, and the sooner he does, the better.

Torn doesn’t even begin to cover the way he feels. Frustrated is a very close second.

He’s been staring at the computer screen as though it’ll help him spot the result he needs faster. John has already put on his jacket and is ready to go, but he’s watching Sherlock instead of leaving.

“It’s a straight ride from the school to Bart’s,” John finally says.

Sherlock nods absently.

“I know. I’ll leave as late as I can and we’ll come back right away. With any luck I won’t have to start from scratch again.”

He doesn’t really believe it. In his experience, relying on luck is always a mistake.

“No, I meant, he could ride here on his own.” 

Sherlock’s reaction is an immediate and instinctive. This is not an option. He can’t leave James to ride alone in the tube.

Can he?

Just three months ago he told James that it was out of the question. Can he change his mind now?

“See it as an experiment,” John says with a slight smile. “Give him a bit more freedom just this once, and see how it goes.”

“But what if—”

Sherlock bites his tongue rather than finishing that thought. Without even trying all that hard, he can imagine a dozen things that could happen – none of them good. He’s probably being overly cautious, but how could he be anything else? It’s _James_.

Still smiling, John comes to him. With Sherlock sitting, he’s in the unusual position of having to lean down to brush their mouths together. It’s an interesting change.

“Just this once,” John repeats. “Everything will go just fine. And it’s not like he won’t be on CCTV the entire time.”

Which of course is true. One text to Mycroft and James will have eyes on him from the school to Bart’s. But if the point is to give him a little more independence, that virtual leash is counterproductive.

And if Sherlock is debating about the point of the experiment, he must have made up his mind already, even if he hasn’t admitted it to himself yet.

“I suppose just this time would be acceptable,” he says grudgingly, and gets a grin and a small shake of head from John.

“I’d better go,” John says. “She said she’s expecting visitors later, I want to get there before them.”

He starts to turn away, but apparently changes his mind and turns back to Sherlock. His hand is strong when it cups the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers weaving into his hair. Those kisses are always a little exasperating as they interrupt the flow of whatever Sherlock is doing. They’re also always too brief. And always, always wonderful surprises.

This time, he does leave. Sherlock has to shake himself out of staring at the door behind which he disappeared and pull his phone out to send a quick text.

_At Bart’s. Take the Tube and come here after school.  
SH_

He goes back to his experiment, but keeps his phone on the table next to him. After a couple of minutes, he picks it up again.

_You do have cash for the ride, correct?  
SH_

He sets the phone down but picks it up right away again.

_If you’d rather I come get you just say so.  
SH_

Twenty minutes pass before an answer chimes in.

_It’s fine. Yes I do have money. On my way to station now.  
JH_

Sherlock knows his next text is unnecessary, but he just has to send it anyway.

_Don’t talk to strangers.  
SH_

The answer is near instantaneous.

_That must be the funniest joke I’ve ever heard from you._

And after another second - _Or ever read._

Sherlock grimaces at the phone. He doesn’t particularly like being mocked, but maybe in this instance he did deserve it.

 _Why Bart’s?_ , the next message asks. _Case?_

And then, _Entering the tube soon. Don’t send the secret service if I don’t answer for the next few minutes._

Sherlock huffs. Cheeky.

 _Yes, case,_ he types. _Murder. Quite interesting. I’ll tell you about it when you get here.  
SH_

When he looks up again, Molly is there. She entered so quietly he didn’t even hear her come in.

“You’re smiling,” she says while doing the same. “It’s nice to see you happy.”

Sherlock’s first reaction is to deny that he’s doing any such thing, but he catches a glimpse of his own reflection on the computer screen and yes, she’s right, he’s smiling.

And happy.

And it has absolutely nothing to do with this case being an eight or a nine.

*

It’s a warm day, perfect for riding, and Sherlock, standing on the observation roof of the riding centre, almost wishes he was down there on the grounds with James. Almost; he was never all that fond of riding. If he cared to examine the reasons why not, his father would probably feature prominently in that explanation, but he has no interest in going down that path. Some things are best left alone.

He was reminded of that fact earlier, when John said he’d be going to visit Mary today, and Sherlock, busy at his microscope, didn’t think before he noted aloud that it was the third time this month. John didn’t say a word, but he _stared_ until Sherlock looked up. Lips pinched, eyes flat, hands closed… Sherlock knew right away he’d made a mistake, but before he could think of what to say, John nodded once, and left.

He still doesn’t know what he could have said, but he’ll need to figure it out. Should he explain… explain what, exactly? That he keeps track of how often John visits the cemetery as a sort of barometer of John’s happiness? That he tries to correlate those visits to things he says, things John says, nights when they have sex, nights when they don’t, cases, blog posts, and small, meaningless arguments that he always fears aren’t small or meaningless at all? Should he remind John that he has no frame of reference as to what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like and John’s visits to the cemetery feel a little like visits to a former flame?

He knows, without any doubt, that admitting to jealousy would be a mistake – and it’s not jealousy he feels, not exactly. He’s just… wary. And worried that, in the end, John will realize that life with him is not as meaningful as his life with Mary.

“He’s good. Have you thought of entering him into competitions?”

It’s not the words that attract Sherlock’s attention; out of nowhere, the statement and question mean nothing to him. But the familiar voice causes him to turn to the person standing an arm’s length away and looking out, like he does, toward the grounds, down below, where James has been taking turns with two other riders running through an obstacles course. Except that Sherlock, caught in his mind, hasn’t really been seeing him ride for a little while now, just like he didn’t notice Mycroft approaching.

He, Sherlock, not noticing something like this… He always knew a relationship would affect his abilities.

And yet, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“He’d need a better horse,” Mycroft continues the same train of thought. “That could be arranged.”

“So you didn’t buy back the one Moriarty senior bought for him?”

“Hmm? No. After reflection, I thought the reminder might be… unwise.”

Sherlock silently agrees.

“So,” Mycroft persists. “How about competitions?”

“He hasn’t asked, and I won’t bring it up until he does. I know he took part in a few with his father. That might be another unneeded reminder.”

“Ah, yes. I see.”

For a little while, they’re both silent, watching James down there as he guides his horse through flawless jumps. Not so long ago, Sherlock would have been on edge just from having Mycroft so close and so silent, knowing he was there for a specific reason and waiting for him to voice it. Today, he finds waiting patiently within the realm of what he can do… at least for a while.

“You didn’t come here to discuss James’ horseback riding future,” he finally says. 

“No, I came here because you apparently cannot answer your phone.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at that. He didn’t get a call from Mycroft, he’s fairly certain of it. Things have been… smoother between them since his return, and he no longer routinely ignores Mycroft’s calls or texts.

“Mummy says she’s been trying to call you for a week.”

The raised eyebrow turns to a frown.

“I haven’t received a call from her since before Christmas.”

They look at each other, and while neither says a word, Sherlock is sure Mycroft can see in his eyes the same worry he can read in Mycroft’s.

“Well,” Mycroft says after a few seconds. “Easter is coming. She’d like us all to visit. I told her I wouldn’t be able to stay more than a few hours, but I think she hopes you’ll stay longer than that. Doesn’t James get two full weeks off school?”

“Why ask the question when you know full well the answer?” Sherlock grouses.

It’s not Mycroft he’s annoyed with; it’s himself. He has little desire to go visit, let alone spend any amount of time in his childhood home, but he’s going to, isn’t he? He’d all but promised James, months ago.

“What shall I tell Mummy then?” Mycroft asks, returning his attention back to the riding lesson down below.

All three riders are in a half-circle next to someone wearing the bright green jacket that identifies them as staff, and even from up here Sherlock can see them nodding at whatever the instructor is saying.

“John might have other plans,” Sherlock says, playing for time. “I’ll let you know.”

“Other plans for what?” comes the question behind him.

Both Sherlock and Mycroft turn to watch John come closer. His hands are out of sight in his jacket pockets. Sherlock wonders if they’re open or balled up into fists.

“Easter,” Mycroft replies. “Our mother invited you all to stay a few days.”

John’s expression remains neutral as he meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“Why not? I’m sure James would like that. And we’re out of honey.”

What Mycroft makes of that last remark, Sherlock has no idea, but he nods as though the matter is settled. 

“Very well. I’ll let her know. We can arrange transportation later.”

“I’ll rent a car,” Sherlock says quickly, having no intention to share a ride with Mycroft for that long, but already Mycroft is walking away, the tip of his umbrella striking the ground while he raises his hand in a farewell gesture.

John steps forward, coming to stand by Sherlock’s side and looking down to the grounds.

“What is it with you and rooftops?” he asks, his lips set on a wry, not-quite smile.

Sherlock doesn’t reply. Not only he has no answer, but he doesn’t care to revisit that topic. Besides, he has something else to say first.

“I apologize.” A good start, though probably not enough. “My remark wasn’t meant to express reproach or disapproval, just—”

“It’s fine,” John interrupts, never looking away from the grounds. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. And you’re right, it’s been three times this month.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and turns his head minutely until he’s looking at Sherlock from the corner of his eye.

“It’s got nothing to do with you, you know. I mean, nothing to do with _us_. I can be happy with you and still grieve for her death. One doesn’t preclude the other.”

Sherlock nods, though in truth he’s not sure he understands. He’s never grieved anyone like that – unless grieving is what he did when he came back to London and realized he’d lost John. Part of his soul was shattered, then; and at the very same time, another part was learning to care for a small boy.

He looks down again at the riders. The green jacket is still instructing, but only two students are listening. The third one is a few yards away, talking to a figure carrying an umbrella.

“Angelo’s, tonight?” Sherlock asks, looking back at John.

John’s smile is answer enough.


	7. Expectations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my apologies for the delay.

The Easter vacation arrives much too fast. Sherlock keeps hoping for a last-minute case that would trim a day or three from their trip, but alas, no such luck. John seems quite amused by his grumbling reluctance. 

“I do get you don’t like that place,” he says two nights before they are to leave. They’re in bed, but the distraction John so selflessly provided is sadly over. “But maybe what you need is to make new memories there. While there’s still time.”

He doesn’t have to explain time for what; they both know what’s going on with Mummy, even if they’ve never discussed it properly. Sherlock gets them off the topic again by taking a turn at providing distractions.

At least – small mercies – they won’t stay there for the entire vacation. James has a second date on the Saturday before he’s due back in school – or something akin to a date. Laure is apparently playing the leading role in a small play her theatre group is performing, and James is keen on attending.

“She’s thinking of studying acting,” he tells them the last evening over dinner, gesticulating a bit with his fork in his enthusiasm about the all important topic of Laure. “Her mother doesn’t approve, but her father does. Her real father, I mean, not her stepfather.”

Privately, Sherlock marvels a bit that James can speak of a ‘real father’ without a pained echo ringing in his voice or his eyes dulling a little. That wound, it seems, is well on its way to healing.

Later that night, long after he’s said goodnight, James comes back down to the sitting room while John is taking a shower. Sherlock is busy compulsively refreshing his inbox, still hoping for the email that will save him. One look at James’ hesitant expression and he puts the laptop away, standing up to get his violin instead.

“That’s not…” James starts, stopping immediately when Sherlock looks at him. “I mean, I always like hearing you play, but you don’t have to. I wanted to ask…”

He steps over to the sofa and sits on the very edge, playing absently with the belt of his dressing gown. Sherlock tries to read his expression, his demeanor, the way he doesn’t quite meet Sherlock’s eyes, but he can’t figure it out, and has to prompt, “Ask what?”

James’ cheeks pink up a little, and that’s already a better clue.

“It’s stupid,” he mutters, standing up again. “Forget I even—”

“It’s about Laure, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks, raising the violin and running the bow over the strings in one long, clear note.

James hesitates, then sit down again, but he doesn’t say anything.

“What about her?” Sherlock asks. “Something wrong?”

“Not wrong,” James says diffidently. Never mind pink; his cheeks are turning a deep crimson. “Just… Today, when we said goodbye after school… I think she wanted… or expected me to… to…”

He stops again and stares at his hands, clenched tightly on his knees. Sherlock thinks he sees where this is going – or not going, as the case may be – and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Whatever she or anyone else expects doesn’t mean you have to do anything,” he says, punctuating the sentence with a few chords from Vivaldi.

James looks up again, watching the bow dance over the violin rather than look at Sherlock directly.

“When I was in Ireland,” he says after a moment, more quietly now, “there was a girl. She was nice. I thought she liked me. But _he_ made her kiss me.”

Those last few words are full of a venom Sherlock only ever heard from James when he was talking about Moran. It’s easy enough to understand why, but not so easy to figure out what to say in reply. Sherlock plays another slow chord on the violin, and maybe that’s enough of an answer because James goes on.

“He made her,” he repeats. “I don’t know how. Maybe he threatened her. Or maybe he paid her. She said she had a boyfriend so she didn’t really care about me and I don’t know if he told her to be nice too or if it was her idea but she kissed me anyway and it didn’t mean anything to her and… and…”

It all comes out in a rush until James is breathing hard, almost panting, his eyes darker than ever. Is a panic attack lurking, or is it just plain old anger animating James?

“Breathe,” Sherlock says. “You’re upset, and you have every reason to be, but making yourself sick won’t help.”

Disappointment crosses James’ expression before he drops his head in his hands and takes in shaky breaths.

Disappointment… An admonition to breathe wasn’t what he wanted. Of course not. Sherlock tries again.

“It should mean something,” he says softly. The subject is not one he’s all that interested or comfortable discussing, but he doesn’t have a choice right now, does he? “Whatever their reasons, his for making her and hers for obeying him, it wasn’t fair to you. There isn’t much you can do about the past, but you can treat yourself better. Don’t kiss the girl because that’s what she or anyone else expects you to do. Kiss her when you’re ready to do it.”

James peeks out from behind his hands.

“What if it takes a long time?”

“Then it’ll mean that much more,” Sherlock says, the fleeting image of a staircase at Bart’s crossing his mind.

“But what if it’s too long for her and she doesn’t wait for me?”

“Would you want to be with someone who wants things to happen on their agenda regardless of how you feel?”

James doesn’t reply, but when he raises his head again, his breathing is back to normal. He sits there a little longer, watching Sherlock’s bow slide through a few random exercises. When he finally stands, he offers a quiet, “Thank you,” a flash of a smile, and he retreats to his bedroom.

Seconds after he has left, John comes into the sitting room.

“Been listening long?” Sherlock asks, one eyebrow raised.

“Long enough to know you didn’t need me to intrude,” John offers with a smile. “Come to bed?”

Sherlock glances at his laptop. Part of him wants to check if a half-decent case has suddenly landed in his inbox, but if by chance it did, it’ll still be there in the morning. He puts his violin away and follows John.

*

Sherlock rents a car to go down to Sussex. John sits in the front with him while James is in the back, reading for most of the trip. He only puts down his ereader three times, trading it for his phone. Sherlock watches him in the rearview mirror as he grins at whatever messages he’s receiving or sending.

The memory of another series of text messages tries to rise to the front of Sherlock’s mind, but he pushes it away. That episode of their lives is over, even if he still catches himself worrying at odd moments about James being taken from them again. Every time he has the urge to go check on him in the middle of the night, John gives him a little understanding smile that Sherlock has learned to recognize –a smile that says, ‘you’re ridiculous but I love you so I’m not going to say anything.’

Despite Sherlock being very careful to drive well under the speed limit the entire way, they get there all too soon. Mummy comes out while they pull their suitcases from the trunk of the car. She uses a cane, polished cherry wood with a bronzed pommel and walks with a slight limp, but she seems steady enough. Only a few steps behind her, a nurse – not the same one that was there at Christmas – watches her like a hawk, ready to help at the first sign of weakness.

Sherlock takes in a deep breath, lets it out in a resigned sigh. Ten days. He survived three years on the run, he can survive ten days in his mother’s house.

Hopefully.

*

From the moment she welcomes them, it’s clear that Mummy is up to something. There’s a twinkle in her eye that wasn’t there the last two times Sherlock saw her. Mycroft did mention her new medication has given her a bit of her spark back – though he did say it’s unlikely to last.

They don’t have to wait long. At two that afternoon, after she’s taken a short nap, she demands that they all accompany her out. They’ve only been there for a couple of minutes when a rider comes up the driveway, a second horse tethered to his saddle.

“Hello, Mrs. Holmes,” he calls out with a bright smile. 

Sixteen, Sherlock estimates. Maybe seventeen. Judging from the splatters of mud, he rode through a field, but not a very wide one. A nearby neighbor had horses when Sherlock was growing up. Apparently, he still does, and he has a grandson, too.

Mummy makes the introductions. She has apparently enrolled the neighbor’s grandson to show the countryside to James. As ploys to get him – and Sherlock – to visit more often go, this isn’t even remotely subtle. But in front of James’ obvious delight, Sherlock bites his tongue and says nothing.

* 

Easter Sunday is… not as bad as Sherlock remembers these things being. Or maybe having John next to him and James across from him at the table make all the difference. Even Mycroft’s presence is singularly bearable. It’s very odd.

It would be better, however, if Mummy didn’t forget John’s name twice.

*

On Wednesday, luck finally shines on Sherlock: a wonderful case is waiting in his email inbox when he wakes up.

“But we’re on vacation,” John says as they get out of bed.

The protest would be more convincing if he wasn’t getting dressed just as quickly as Sherlock is.

“No, _James_ is on vacation. There’s no such thing as vacation for consulting detectives. I made up the job, I make up the rules.”

John laughs at that, and the sound is so warm that Sherlock begins to wonder if they have time to get undressed again. But no, they have a long road ahead of them.

When they come back, however…

They go down together, bringing one suitcase hastily filled with clothes and toiletries for them both. They find James and Mummy in the dining room, having breakfast and talking – what else – about horses.

“My apologies, Mummy,” Sherlock says as John pours two cups of coffee. “Work calls. John and I will be gone for a couple of days. I trust you and James will be fine.”

He says the last with a look at James, who gives a small, slow nod.

Mummy dabs at her mouth with her napkin but Sherlock can still see her grimace.

“Work,” she repeats. “One of those… grisly cases?”

She never did approve of his choice of profession.

“No,” he says, practically inhaling his coffee. “Nothing grisly about it. A racing horse disappeared in some strange circumstances in Wales. It shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”

A delicate sniff is Mummy’s only answer. Leaving John to his breakfast, Sherlock takes the suitcase out to the car. He’s just shut the trunk when James joins him and asks, “May I come?”

The question is unexpected, and it takes Sherlock aback. He thought James would be content enough to stay with Mummy and keep riding with his new friend. At first, he thinks James’ interest has to do with the fact that the case is about horses, but he has one here, so that can’t be it. It’s something else. 

“I don’t think it’ll be a very complicated or interesting case,” he says. “It’ll probably take us as long to get there and come back as it’ll take me to solve it.”

“It’s all right,” James says quickly. “I mean, it’ll be a nice day trip. I’ve never been to Wales.”

James’ eyes lit up on that last word, and Sherlock understands. It’s not about the case. It’s about something very different.

“My client is nowhere near her,” he says, keeping his voice neutral.

“Near who?” James asks, but a hint of pink in his cheeks betrays him. When Sherlock keeps silent, James looks away, seemingly embarrassed.

“Am I that transparent?” he mutters.

“It’s more the fact that I’ve been expecting you to bring her up for a while now.”

When James’ eyes come back to him, they’re cautiously hopeful.

“So… if it was closer, you wouldn’t mind if we went by?”

Sherlock isn’t sure he’s entirely truthful when he says, “Of course not.”

“We don’t have to tell her who I am,” James goes on. “I mean, we don’t even have to talk to her, just—”

“If you want to meet her,” Sherlock interrupts, “we’ll find a way.”

Judging from James relieved, beaming smile, it was the right thing to say… but would it be the right thing to do? The woman thinks her son is dead. There are ways to approach her so that she wouldn’t suspect a thing, but would it be enough for James? What does he expect will come out of meeting a woman who believes he died more than twelve years ago? 

Sherlock suddenly wishes he hadn’t checked his email this morning.


	8. The Last Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for not answering comments on the last chapter yet. I'll get to it. Please do believe that every bit of feedback is truly appreciated and fed to my muse to help her work faster.

It’s a great case.

A stolen horse. Footprints. Strange injuries… It’s like a wonderful puzzle in which the pieces fit together to form the most intriguing picture. It should give Sherlock that feeling, not unlike a chemical high, that always comes to him when a case challenges him in unexpected ways.

It’s a great case, and it’ll probably make a nice addition to John’s blog, but no, Sherlock doesn’t get that feeling, and he doesn’t enjoy himself. How could he, when he dreads what will come after he solves it?

And as much as he tries to keep that fact to himself, it’s hard to hide it from the too observing man who shares his bed.

“Something’s off with you,” John says on their second night in the small B&B. He’s sitting on the bed, watching Sherlock tap listlessly on his phone. “Case like this, with so many clues, I’m surprised you haven’t solved it yet.”

Sherlock couldn’t say what he does to give himself away, but when he glances up from his phone, John’s eyes widen a fraction and he tilts his head in confusion.

“You did solve it? When?”

Briefly, Sherlock considers denying it. Lying to John, however, seems like a rather bad idea.

“This afternoon,” he admits with a sigh. “After we talked to the stable boy.”

John shakes his head, looking exasperated.

“And you’re pretending, why? Because you don’t want to go back to your mother’s? Come on, Sherlock. It’s not _that_ bad.”

“That’s not…” Sherlock sighs again. He seems to be doing that a lot, lately. “It’s not that bad, no, but that’s not why…” Another sigh rises to his lips, and this time he manages to stifle it. “It’s James. He asked to go see his mother when we’re done here.”

He watches John in the silence that follows, watches him process the words, come up with an explanation, pick out careful words he finally delivers in an equally careful voice.

“So it’s not your mother that’s the issue, it’s James’? You told him months ago he could meet her someday. Did you change your mind?”

“No,” Sherlock answers automatically, because that much is true. He said James could do it, and he won’t come back on his word. “I’m just worried about what will happen. James hasn’t been treated all that well by his blood relatives so far. If she does something to hurt him…”

He doesn’t even know how to finish. Surely saying he’d hurt her in return would be more than a bit not good.

When John frowns, Sherlock thinks his thoughts must have shown on his face, but it’s something else that apparently troubles John.

“Are you actually going to approach her and tell her about James? She’s his mother, sure, but she believes him dead and she has no idea what he went through. She doesn’t know what kind of man Moriarty was. If she asks James questions about his father, or how he ended up with us…” He pauses. When he starts again, it’s in a whisper. “And what if she wants him back?”

Despite himself, Sherlock flinches. He’s had these thoughts more than once since James first raised the idea of meeting his mother some day. And he has no answer, other than a simple fact.

“He knows her name,” he says quietly. “Suppose I forbid him to meet her. How long do you think it’d take him to go around our backs and find her on his own?”

“He promised never to run away again,” John says gently.

“And I said we’d find a way for him to meet her. I can’t go back on it now, even if I want to.”

And god, does he ever… But delaying is not the solution.

In the morning, he solves the case. And then they get on their way.

*

It’s a small town they drive into, smaller than Sherlock expected. The graveyard is on the edge of it, by a stone church. The bells ring twelve times right as he parks the car on the central square.

“There’s a pub over there,” John point out. “Should we grab something to eat?”

But James obviously has something different in mind. As they get out of the car, his eyes are glued to the graveyard.

“Can we…” he starts, blinking and turning his gaze to Sherlock and John.

The two of them share a look. Sherlock can’t say he’s happy with this turn of events, but he isn’t all that surprised either. He, too, once visited what was supposed to be his grave.

“Let’s go, then,” John says, and leads the way.

He reaches the small iron gate first and opens it, waiting for Sherlock and James to pass through before he closes it again. The metal clanks lightly, and the sound seems to echo among the graves.

They start walking through the alleys, gravel crunching under their feet the only sound. Sherlock’s eyes run over names and dates and he knows both John and James are doing the same. He knows the graves they’re looking for are empty – James is living proof of that – but he still feels a sense of foreboding, and part of him doesn’t want them to find those graves at all.

John finds them first. The two dates of birth on the large marble stone are some twenty odd years apart, but the date of death is the same for both father and son, both of them named James. Flowers rest at the foot of the stone, about two weeks old judging by how wilted they are.

“This is so weird,” James whispers, staring at the names.

Without quite knowing why, Sherlock feels the need to rest his hand on James’ shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, none of them does, and after a few moments James nods, ready to go. The three of them turn around and start walking toward the exit.

Sherlock almost misses a step when he sees her.

A woman is at the entrance of the graveyard, coming toward them, a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She has a thick scarf around her neck to ward off the cold wind, but her face is bare, and he recognizes her at once even if he only glanced at her picture a couple of times.

When James almost stumbles, too, Sherlock knows he’s not the only one who recognized her.

They keep walking, crossing path with the woman. She inclines her head, smiling ever so faintly. Sherlock returns the light greeting, but a smile is beyond him. He keeps expecting James to stop, to turn to her, to say something, but James continues to walk, following John’s lead once more, and soon the gates close behind them with that same metallic clank.

Only then does James look back. Sherlock does too. From where they are, they can just see her as she bends to the graves, then stands there, her head bowed.

“Is that her?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock nods.

A few seconds pass in silence. The woman hasn’t noticed they’re all watching her, but as soon as she turns to leave, she’ll see them. Sherlock knows he must ask the question, must offer, at least, but the words refuse to pass his lips. It’s finally John who asks.

“James? Do you want to talk to her?”

A tremor shakes James under Sherlock’s hand. He turns away from the woman – away from Sherlock’s hand.

“No,” he murmurs, then repeats the word louder, as though to convince them – or maybe himself – that he means it. “No. Let’s go.”

As they have a lunch of fish and chips in that small pub, Sherlock keeps expecting James to change his mind. But if James, having claimed a seat by the window, watches avidly as the woman finally leaves the graveyard and crosses the square on foot, he never says a word about her.

He still doesn’t say anything about her when they go back to Sussex to get the rest of their things and say goodbye to Mummy. He does tell her about the case, with enough enthusiasm that she seems interested despite herself, but he doesn’t mention their little side trip. Sherlock doesn’t know what to make of it.

It’s only when they’re back in London the next day, all three of them at the kitchen table and enjoying the new honey and jam they brought back, that he finally asks, “Can we go back to Wales sometime?”

His voice is completely casual, as though this is just a stray thought of no real importance. Of course it’s anything but.

“I’m guessing it’s not the scenery you want to experience again,” John says with a slight smile when Sherlock doesn’t immediately answer.

James ducks his head and shrugs.

“If all you want is to know what she’s up to,” Sherlock says slowly, “I’m sure Mycroft—”

“I don’t want surveillance pictures,” James interrupts. “I want… I’d like… I’d like to meet her. Talk to her. Could we do that?”

“And tell her who you are?” Sherlock asks rather than answering.

Another light shrugs tells a lot more than James’ quiet, “Maybe.”

“That’d mean telling her who your father was exactly. All these years she thought he was a good man. Are you ready for the questions she’ll ask?”

Sherlock isn’t playing fair. He realizes that. But that’s the best argument he has come up with, other than ‘she might try to get you away from us.’

For a long, long moment, James is silent, his gaze focused on the fork he’s rolling back and forth next to his plate.

“She’ll find out he wasn’t who she thought he was,” he finally says without looking up. “But she’ll also find out I’m not dead. Maybe it’ll make up for it. I mean, if she still visits those graves after all these years, she must still be sad about it. It’s not right to let her be sad when I could just tell her I’m alive.”

‘Just’ tell her? Sherlock doubts it’ll be that easy. But how can he say so when James is giving him such an earnest look? Despite Moriarty’s lessons – or maybe because of them – James has a rather keen sense of what is right or wrong. And yes, it’s probably the right thing to do to tell this woman that the child she thought she lost was stolen from her but still lives.

In the privacy of his own mind, Sherlock can admit he’d have no qualms forgetting the woman even exists.

“Maybe we can take a trip to Wales during the summer vacation,” John offers quietly, his words directed at James but his eyes on Sherlock.

Belatedly, Sherlock realizes a long moment has passed, his silence growing heavier and heavier.

“Right,” he says. “This summer. When you’re out of school.”

“Oh. Okay,” James mumbles. He sounds anything but okay.

“Or maybe sooner,” Sherlock concedes, and gets a half smile for his trouble.

*

That evening, he and John accompany James to see Laure perform in that play James has been talking about all day in what felt like a forced attempt to change the topic of conversation. Coming out of it, as they meet up with the girl and her mother, Sherlock couldn’t say what it even was about, and while James raves about how good Laure was, Sherlock can only pretend to agree. John catches his eye, silently asking what’s wrong, but Sherlock shakes his head. He’s already told John about his fears, there is no need to go on at length about them.

Later that night, unable to sleep, he slips out of bed and settles down in the sitting room with his laptop and the folder Mycroft’s people put together about James’ mother. He goes over each document again, each line of information, and spends quite a bit of time finding every last crumb of information about her available on the internet. 

In all of that, there is nothing, not one tiny little detail, that could be used as a reason for James not to reveal his existence to her. From all that Sherlock can find out, she’s a ‘good person’, as James labeled her months ago.

He can’t help but wonder what attracted Moriarty to her. She’s certainly nothing like what Sherlock would have expected him to like – especially knowing that he later had a relationship with Moran.

Was it an experiment? Sherlock could understand that much. He’s had a couple of those himself in his younger years, when he was still figuring out how to be himself. But Moriarty started killing as a teen; it’s hard to imagine him settling down for a few years, starting a family, and then returning to a world of shadows with a child in tow. Unless he planned for this outcome all along and only wanted a child out of that unfortunate woman?

The only person who knows for sure is long dead, and Sherlock will never have an answer to his questions. It only adds to his agitation.

In the small hours of the morning, he breaks the promise he’d made to himself not to involve Mycroft in this and sends him a text.

_How good a job did your people do with James’ birth records?  
Would the documents hold up in court?  
SH_

A good twenty minutes crawl by before Mycroft replies.

_Of course.  
Why?  
MH_

When Sherlock doesn’t answer, a next text comes in.

_I’d advise against it. The woman is a complication you do not need at the moment.  
MH_

Sherlock huffs at his phone.

 _Obviously_ , he sends. _But I’m not the one who needs convincing._

_You’re the parent. The decision rests with you. Doesn’t it?_

Sherlock can all but hear the edge of mocking disdain lining those last words. He jabs at the screen to type his reply.

_The day you become a parent, do feel free to give me advice. Until then, keep your fat nose out of my business.  
SH_

When a long moment passes with no answer, Sherlock feels some vindictive satisfaction at the thought that he’s won this argument. Doubtless that it’s petty, but it feels good, like a semblance of normality returning to his life. 

Mycroft, however, gets the last word.

_Not advice but a simple observation. You may have paperwork to show a potential court you are James’ parent, but the woman has better than that._

Sherlock’s throat tightens as he guesses what Mycroft means. He doesn’t have to wait long for confirmation.

_DNA_


	9. Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More apologies, both for the lateness and for the shortness of this chapter. With Etsy and my original writing (and the elf) claiming my time, this fic is often the last thing i do in the evening, and tiredness does not help the muse do her job. All i can do is thank you for your patience, and assure you that i have every intention to finish this. (And to answer comments - please believe they are very much appreciated.)
> 
> Happy holidays, and happy Sherlock Special!

“Talk to him about it.”

Sherlock continues to stare straight up at the ceiling without looking at John. It’s not really the ceiling he sees in his mind, though, but rather a room in his mind palace, one that appeared without a conscious decision from him to create it. He long ago ceased fighting its existence, to the point that, today, he can barely fathom his mind palace being whole without it.

“Talk to whom about what?” he asks, doing his best to sound bored.

“Can’t you deduce it?” John asks, his voice uncharacteristically dry.

Or maybe not uncharacteristically, Sherlock muses rather than answering. John has always been to the point and not always very patient when confronted to Sherlock’s moods. It’s only lately that he’s kept the snark to himself.

Sentiment.

Or something baser than that.

“You’re frustrated because it’s been over a hundred hours since you achieved sexual release,” Sherlock remarks. “Maybe I should have made it clear to you sooner that I would not feel offended should you decide to take matters into your own hands when my libido is unsatisfactory.”

Seconds pass. Fifty-three extraordinarily long seconds. Sherlock finally looks at John, expecting to discover embarrassment, anger, annoyance – anything but the slight amusement engraved in the curve of John’s smile.

“Is that supposed to get me off your back?” John asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

His arms are crossed, but he seems relaxed as he looks down at Sherlock, again waiting for an answer that Sherlock doesn’t want to give.

“You _are_ frustrated,” Sherlock persists. “Don’t think you can hide—”

“I’m frustrated because you are suffering in silence when all you have to do is talk to him,” John cuts in. “Tell him what bothers you, he’ll tell you of course he has no intention of moving in with his mother, and—”

It’s Sherlock’s turn to interrupt. He sits up on the sofa, facing John fully. 

“How do you know? He’s never had a mother. Maybe living with her is what he wants out of all this, and if it is there’s little I could do to stop it from happening.”

John’s smile fades as he lowers himself to sit on the coffee table, leaning in toward Sherlock.

“He’s never even met the woman,” he says softly. “Do you really think James, with all of his baggage, would trade what he has here with us – with _you_ \-- to live with someone he doesn’t know, someone who knows nothing whatsoever about his past?”

Their eyes meet and remain locked. Silence stretches between them again, but this time, Sherlock relaxes into it. John’s logic is sound. At the moment, it is probable that James does not want to move in with the woman who birthed him.

And still…

“But he will meet her soon. He’ll get to know her. And maybe a fresh start with someone who doesn’t see twenty three cigarette burns when they look at him is something he would eventually appreciate.”

John shakes his head and the smile returns, no more than the ghost of a shadow.

“Is that what you see?” he asks. “I don’t believe it is. And I don’t think James—”

He stops abruptly as footsteps come down the staircase to the landing. The two of them turn to watch James walk in.

“I’m starving,” he says as he enters the sitting room. “Are we…”

His voice trails off when he sees Sherlock and John watching him and he stills.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, his voice suddenly a little higher.

There is a lot behind that question, and too many unpleasant memories for Sherlock to delay answering.

“Nothing wrong,” he says at once, silently adding, ‘not yet.’ “Come sit here for a minute.”

James’ eyes remain a little too wide, a little too questioning as they go back and forth between Sherlock and John. He perches himself on the very edge of John’s armchair and waits. For a moment, John continues to look at Sherlock, but eventually he half turns so he can see both Sherlock and James. It’s up to Sherlock to start that conversation, then. But how?

“About…”

He almost says ‘your mother’, but uses her name instead.

“About Angela. She’s believed you dead for thirteen years. Have you thought that she might not believe you are her son?”

John casts a quick look to Sherlock; that’s not what he expected. He doesn’t say anything. As for James’ small frown, it makes it clear at once that no, he had not considered the possibility.

“Why wouldn’t she?” he asks in a small voice. “She’s still visiting the graveyard so surely she must wish I wasn’t dead. Don’t you think she’ll be happy?”

“Happy to realize she was lied to, and the man she married faked his own death and stole their child?”

Yes, Sherlock does believe she’ll be happy. She might curse Moriarty for stealing thirteen years from her, but if she cries it’ll be from joy. He doesn’t say as much, nor does he wait for James to reply before he goes on.

“Speaking of which, what do you intend to tell her about your father?”

James’ frown deepens a little more.

“Me? I thought… I thought you would talk to her.”

The answer takes Sherlock by surprise. It never occurred to him that he would need to play an active part in this. And he doesn’t _want_ to play this part. But it doesn’t look like he’ll have a choice in that either.

“I will talk to her if you want me too,” he says neutrally. “But you have to tell me what you want her to know. She’s going to have questions about how you survived. Where your father is. How you ended up with us. It’s up to you how much you want her to know.”

As James worries his thumbnail with his teeth, his brow furrowed pensively, Sherlock can imagine what he’s thinking. She’ll be a new person in his life, someone he might see on a regular basis if things go well. He can’t want her to see him as a victim, not when he’s trying so hard to be ‘normal’, whatever that might mean.

“I don’t know,” James says in the end, sounding unhappy. “There are things she’d be better off not knowing. I mean, if she loved him, she doesn’t need to know who he really was, does she?”

Sherlock blinks slowly. That’s… not what he expected.

“We’ll figure something out,” John says, hastening to add, “not a lie, just… not the whole truth, maybe.”

That doesn’t make James any happier, but he still nods ever so slightly.

“Is that all?” he asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, only to earn himself a mildly reproachful look from John. He swallows a sigh and corrects himself. “No. There’s something else I need you to think about. You don’t have to give me an answer now, just… think about it. What will you do if she wants you to live with her?”

It’s as though a light bulb flashes to life in James’ widening eyes.

“Oh,” he says quietly, and immediately repeats it louder. “Oh! Is _that_ what you’ve been upset about?”

“I’m not _upset_ ,” Sherlock replies with a huff, and earns himself a snort from John.

“Not upset at all,” John murmurs with a side look. “Both James and I are imagining things, huh?”

Sherlock leans back, his lips tightening as he refuses to answer. He’s not upset.

Terrified, yes, but not upset.

And unwilling to admit to either.

“Living with her,” James says, “that’s not why I want to meet her. You do know that, right?”

Sherlock knows no such thing – and James can’t know that either, not until he actually meets her. They might hit it off so well that James might change his mind mere moments after first talking to her. Sherlock has pictured that particular scenario in all possible details.

“If that was what you wanted,” he starts, only for James to interrupt right away.

“It’s not!”

“But if it was,” Sherlock persists despite the bitterness at the back of his throat, “it’d be okay. Wherever you want to live, whomever you want to live with… it’s all okay. I just wanted you to know that.”

James’s face turns to a blank mask as he says simply, “All right. Is there anything else?”

Had he said in plain English that Sherlock’s words upset him, it wouldn’t have been any more obvious than it is now. And Sherlock has no clue how to fix it. He glances at John, hoping for help, but John is giving him a pained look that only makes things worse.

They haven’t even spoken to the woman yet, and she’s already disrupting their lives.

“No,” he says, “that’s all.”

It feels like admitting defeat.

*

Charming isn’t a word Sherlock is prone to use, and especially not while referring to a woman, but it fits. Angela is charming in the same way James is – in the same way Moriarty could be, too, not that Sherlock would ever say _that_ aloud.

She’s clever, and she knows she’s clever – more so, probably, than most people she meets. But where that fact drives Sherlock insane with boredom, she takes it in stride, not exactly lowering herself to the level of whoever she speaks too, but coaxing them up a little higher.

She guesses who James is before Sherlock is halfway through explaining. Her arms wrap around the boy a half second after that. And James…

James, who has shied away from most physical contact for as long as Sherlock has known him, James for whom a hug is a momentous sign of trust, James who doesn’t even hold Laure’s hand yet…

And James hugs her back as though he never wants to let go.

They don’t have to explain about Moriarty. She knows – she saw his picture in the papers, three years ago.

“When I realized he was alive, I started wondering if you might be, too,” she tells James in that soft, soft voice that only some mothers can use, her fingers running through his hair, her eyes still a little wet with unshed tears as she looks down at him like she is physically unable to look away.

And James looks back just as intensely.

It was meant to be a short visit, just a first step, but hours fly and night falls before any of them is ready. It’s time to leave.

“Yes, you should go if you want to be in London before midnight,” she says with a nod and a smile. “Thank you for bringing my son back to me. Say goodbye, James.”

And James says goodbye, smiling like she does before the door closes on the two of them shutting Sherlock and John out.

Sherlock wakes up with a gasp that’s absolutely not a whimper.

With his heart in his throat and his eyes open wide though not seeing a thing, he remains very still, hoping he didn’t wake John.

No such luck.

“Bad dream?” John mumbles, rolling over and throwing his arm across Sherlock’s chest. “Tell me?”

Tell him?

Sherlock would rather tell him in details every single thing he did during the three years he was away – even those that would harden John’s eyes, turn his mouth to a thin line – rather than tell him about this particular dream.

Or the half dozen others just like it Sherlock had in the past couple of weeks.

“This weekend,” he says.

John makes a sleepy, questioning noise.

“We’ll take him to see that woman this weekend.”

And if Sherlock’s worst fears are confirmed…

Well, at least they won’t be nightmares anymore.


	10. Growing Silence

“Do you think I should wear a tie tomorrow?”

For a second or two, Sherlock thinks the question is directed toward him, and he struggles to find an answer. Strange how, lately, any question James asks, as innocuous as it might be, seems like a minefield that requires the greatest care to navigate.

“Do you _want_ to wear a tie?” John asks before Sherlock can decide on an answer.

He looks up from the microscope, turning his gaze to the sitting room where John is typing up their latest case at the table. He can’t see James; he must be just on the threshold, having gone up to his room a little while ago and come back down for this probably predictable question.

“I don’t know if I want to,” James says, and now he walks into the sitting room, coming to lean against John’s chair. “But I think maybe I should wear a tie. And a suit. Don’t you?”

John pushes the chair away from the table and turns fully toward James. His gaze drifts over James’ shoulder for a second to meet Sherlock’s eyes, but it soon returns fully to James.

“What I think,” he says in a soft voice Sherlock isn’t used to hearing from him, “is that she won’t give a damn what you’re wearing. You could go in a tutu and once she knows who you are, she’d only see you.”

“Well that solves it, then,” James says, and Sherlock can hear the grin bursting out of him. “Seeing how I don’t have a tutu, I guess I’ll wear normal clothes.”

They share a laugh, and Sherlock just has time to tell himself it’s good that James can still laugh even when he’s so nervous before James turns around and their eyes meet. Laughter and grin disappear, replaced by something that inexplicably resembles guilt.

Sherlock finds it strangely painful to realize that, somehow, the sight of him was enough to dissuade James from laughing.

“Do you think I should wear a suit?” James asks after a beat of silence.

“I think you should wear whatever you feel most comfortable wearing,” Sherlock says. He tries to lighten things up by adding, “If you want a tutu I suppose we can find a shop on the way there.”

James’ smile, so natural just a moment ago, now feels forced and strained.

“What time are we leaving?”

Sherlock doesn’t point out that he already answered that question three times in the past two days. When they first met, he told James he hated repeating himself, but these days it doesn’t seem so irritating anymore.

Or maybe it still is, but he’s too afraid to say so.

Afraid of hurting the feelings of a thirteen year old boy. Even more so than he is of hurting John’s feelings. If he could take a step back and analyze all this, he might find it odd. As it is, all he can do is answer James’ question.

“Eight thirty.”

Which should allow them to get there a little after noon. They’ll get lunch in the same little pub as last time, and then…

And then.

“I was thinking,” James starts, but stops abruptly.

“Thinking what?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Good night.”

And with that, he hurries back to his room.

At a loss as to what this was about, Sherlock looks at John. He just has the time to catch his frown before John smoothes out his expression.

“What am I doing wrong?” he asks, slightly sullen.

“Nothing. Why do you think you’re doing something wrong?”

“He asked you about clothes.”

John’s expression turns nonplussed. “And?”

“And your sartorial choices are not really up to his standards.”

At the moment the words pass his lips, Sherlock realizes they might be in the realm of ‘not good’. One look at John is enough to confirm that there’s no ‘might’ about it.

“I don’t mean—”

John stops him with a gesture of his hand.

“Never mind that, whatever you meant by it. He didn’t ask me because he wants to dress like me. He asked me because the alternative was asking you. And upsetting you some more.”

“I’m not—I wouldn’t—I…”

Lying to John used to be easy. Lately, it seems near impossible.

“It’ll be all right,” John says, coming to him to offer what Sherlock supposes is comfort.

Apparently, John can still lie to him quite easily.

*

During the three years he spent dismantling Moriarty’s network, Sherlock’s least favorite part was always getting from point A to point B. Each hour spent on the road, on a train, in a plane – and on one miserable occasion in a freight boat – felt like an hour wasted. An hour stolen from him and the life he wanted back, home in London with John.

The trip to Wales is just as bad – but it feels much, much too short.

They stop for lunch in the pub on the square, though none of them does much more than pick at their food. Angela’s townhouse is a short walk away. Silence makes those five minutes longer than the entire ride.

As Sherlock knocks on her door, his mind takes in details about the metal gate, the brick wall, the yard, the path, the door and its knocker, the curtains on the second floor – but somehow, the deductions that should come with all this escape him, and he can form no image of the woman he’s about to meet. Or at least, nothing he doesn’t already know from Mycroft’s report.

Seconds pass. The door doesn’t open, nor can Sherlock hear anything inside. He glances back; James is biting his thumbnail, nervousness inscribed in every inch of the way he stands or looks fixedly at the door. He opted to wear a tie with his suit, after all. He didn’t have one when he came down for breakfast, but he went back to his room before they left. He combed his hair back with care, every strand in place. It’s been a while since he looked so much like a miniature version of his father.

“Try again,” John suggests. “Maybe she didn’t hear.”

Sherlock knocks again, and tries the doorbell for good measure, but there’s still no answer.

“She’s not home,” a voice calls out, and Sherlock, John and James all turn to look at the next door neighbor, an elderly woman who is carrying her shopping to her door. “It’s Carnival Day at the school. She’ll be there ‘til late.”

Sherlock would be all too happy to take this excuse and go home, but John is already asking the woman for directions toward the school. Five minutes to walk back to the square and the car. Five minutes to drive to ‘Our Lady’s School for Exceptional Children’. Not a single word from any of them. Sherlock wonders if by the time they return to London he’ll have forgotten how to speak.

He has to park on the side of the road as the parking lot is full. The school is a sprawling one-story building with a small football field on one side. A large number of children and adults are on the grass, participating in some kind of games. More people still are streaming in and out of the school itself, the large doors open wide. Music comes from somewhere inside, wind, string and percussion instruments slightly out of tempo and with an occasional missed note playing along a piano.

“How are we going to find her here?” James asks.

“We’ll look around,” John says decisively. “Or ask.”

Or they could just leave, go home and never come back, Sherlock thinks – but doesn’t say.

They walk along the edge of the football field, and a girl sitting behind a refreshments stand offers them their pick of lemonade, tea or coffee. She looks like she might be a year or two younger than James, but her speech patterns are that of a much younger child. She wears thick glasses, and on one side the lens was replaced by a patch with a painted smiling sun. She pouts a little when Sherlock and James decline her offer, but smiles brightly when John accepts. Next to her, her mother nods at him, smiling as well. 

“Could you maybe help us?” John asks – he’s not drinking the lemonade, Sherlock notices with something that feels strangely like vindictiveness. “We’re looking for the director of the school. Would you happen to know where we might find her?”

“Miss Angela plays the piano!” the girl pipes up at once. “She’s the best player in the world!”

Her mother nods at her. “Yes, you’re right, Lucy. She’s very good.” Turning to John, she indicates the school. “I think it’s her, accompanying the kids. They’re in the assembly room, on the far left when you walk in.”

On they go, silent again in the midst of laughter and excitement. They cross paths with children of various ages and their parents. Some are just toddlers, others seem on the brink of adulthood; some have an obvious disability – ‘differently abled’, Sherlock remembers the brochure called it – but not all. Inside, every door is open onto brightly decorated classrooms, some children pointing out their work to whoever is with them.

They follow the music to the auditorium, and Sherlock tries not to dwell on the fact that the woman plays the piano, tries not to wonder whether James will think it’s significant.

Just as they’re about to get in, John catches his eye and tilts his head to one side. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s worry in his expression. Sherlock looks away, ostensibly to check on James. James’ face is a mask, nothing showing of what he thinks or feels.

The piano is at the back of the room, with a handful of children standing in front of it and playing their instruments. They all but hide Angela.

With no way to get to her without interrupting the show, Sherlock, John and James take seats among the proud parents and watch as this group of children finishes their song, take a bow, then leave their places to another group. It takes the new group a few moments to settle down, but when ‘Miss Angela’ gives them a single note, they’re ready to start more or less together.

As five more groups take turns one after the other, the music proficiency slowly increases, with better rhythm and less dropped notes. The final group is just two girls, twins, both of them playing the flute. Angela stands to the side rather than accompany them; it’s clear they don’t need anyone as they’re both excellent. Sherlock isn’t watching them; his eyes are on Angela – and he would bet James’ are as well.

She’s wearing a blue blouse and a black pencil skirt that falls past her knees. Sheer tights and flat-heeled shoes complete her outfit. Her brown hair is in a bun. She looks older than her age – probably on purpose. She is in charge, after all, and maturity can reassure some people.

The girls finish their music piece with matching trills of their flutes. They’re beaming as they bow to thunderous applause. Angela hugs them both before calling out to the room at large.

“We’re going to take a half hour break, and start again with fresh groups of students. Feel free to get refreshments or participate in some of our games in the meantime!”

James is on his feet before she’s finished, and for a second Sherlock is sure he’ll be going to her on his own – but no, James turns to him, swallowing hard before he asks, “Should we go talk to her, then?”

They have to wait as various parents want to shake hands or say hello, and yet again Sherlock would like nothing better than to leave. His mouth feels dry, and he wishes he’d taken that lemonade after all. He wishes he didn’t have to do this. He wishes he’d said no when James first raised the idea of meeting his mother. He wishes he weren’t so absolutely sure that things are about to take a turn for the worse.

“Hello,” she says as they approach, a bright smile on her face. “I’m sorry, you look familiar but I don’t believe we’ve met before, have we? Are you thinking of enrolling this young man in our school?”

Something passes through her eyes when she looks at James, something that might be recognition if it wasn’t followed so closely by pain. Her smile wavers, but she pushes it back to her lips as she turns her eyes resolutely toward Sherlock, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock can’t seem to form a single word. He knows he must speak, he’s even decided on what he would say, but right now words just won’t come.

Next to him, John clears his throat.

“John Watson,” he says, offering her his hand to shake. “This is Sherlock Holmes, and James. Could we maybe talk somewhere private?”

He finishes with a meaningful look to the people lingering in the room. Angela looks taken aback, but she gets a grip on herself and with a quiet, “Of course. This way, please,” she leads them out of the auditorium and into a nearby office. She invites them to sit, though when she remains standing herself, leaning against her desk, they stay on their feet as well.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “but did you say Sherlock Holmes? Aren’t you the detective who found that racing horse a few weeks ago? It was in the paper.”

“That was me, yes,” Sherlock manages to reply.

She frowns ever so slightly. Her gaze travels over all three of them again, and this time lingers a little bit longer on James.

“And… you were at the graveyard, weren’t you? That’s why you seem familiar.”

“I was. And it might be why you recognize John and me. But I think James looks familiar to you for a very different reason.”

Her hands tighten on the edge of the desk on either side of her. Her face is growing paler and paler.

“I’m not sure,” she starts, but her voice breaks when she looks at James and she starts over. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“And I think you understand perfectly well,” Sherlock says, swallowing back the bile at the back of his throat. “You just don’t want to believe.”

Once again, her eyes come back to James, but this time she doesn’t look away when she stammers, “It’s… it’s not… not possible.”

“It’s a long story,” James says quietly, and adds, alarmed, “Please don’t cry.”

It’s too late for that. Fat tears are rolling down Angela’s face as she blinks repeatedly. James fumbles in his coat’s pockets and pulls a handkerchief that he holds out to her. She reaches out to take it, but her trembling fingers close on James’ wrist instead and she draws him closer to her.

Sherlock tenses and is about to intervene when John rests a hand on his arm and shakes his head just once when Sherlock glances at him. Wait, his eyes say.

Angela is still holding on to James’ hand, but now he’s holding back.

“You look just like your father,” she whispers.

 _I look like him_ , James said long ago. _Sebastian said so all the time._ She’s going to send him into a panic attack – unknowingly, sure, but it still angers Sherlock that the first thing she says to James is the worst possible thing she might have said.

Except…

“I know,” James replies, and smiles at her.


	11. Onward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, i have no intention of abandoning this story.  
> Yes, it is ridiculous that it took me 6 months to update  
> No, i don't know how long it'll be until the next chapter.  
> Yes, you have my deepest apologies.

It lasts forever.

Every one of Sherlock’s senses claims so.

His brain says otherwise, but his brain can’t possibly be right. The moment seems frozen in time, Angela and James holding hands, looking at each other.

She looks away first, her eyes finding Sherlock’s, though she still doesn’t let go of James’ hand. Sherlock is surprised she hasn’t hugged him by now – surprised, but it might be better this way.

“Is Jimmy… Is he alive, too?”

Sherlock can’t tell if it’s hope or anger hiding behind the flatness of the question. He can’t even begin to imagine how she might feel right now. He knew it’d be a shock for her to meet James, and there was no way they could have prepared her – was there?

Mycroft tried to butt in and give advice on how to proceed – how he knew what they intended to do, Sherlock has no idea. He offered to approach Angela first and ‘explain’. “It might not be such a bad idea,” John said afterward, but Sherlock had already told Mycroft to mind his own business.

“No,” he answers her question, and absolutely does not wish he’d accepted Mycroft’s offer. Not even for a second.

Something passes through her eyes, too flitting for Sherlock to put a name on it, gone before he can add, “He died four years ago.”

Her lips briefly tighten to a thin line, relaxing again as she looks back at James, and Sherlock can’t help giving her more information than she asked for – the one piece of information she needs to understand, the sooner the better.

“I adopted James last year. He lives with me. He wanted to meet you, so here we are.”

It’s all he can do to stop himself from finishing with, _You can’t have him._

Whether she hears what he’s not saying or not, she doesn’t show it. She finally lets go of James’ hand and, pushing away from the desk, she sits in the closest chair – or rather, she all but collapses into it.

“Four years ago,” she repeats quietly. “So he was alive all that time. And he… he raised you?”

The last part is directed at James, who nods in reply.

“He was alive.” She seems stuck on repeat mode. “So he… what? Faked his death? And yours? Why would he do that?”

James has no answer for her, and neither does Sherlock when she looks up at him.

“Do you have a mobile phone?” John asks suddenly.

Angela looks at him and blinks, almost as though she’d forgotten he was there.

“A mobile… yes. Why?”

“Did you receive that virus video, last December? The one everyone in the country received?”

She frowns. “Yes. I was abroad but I got it. Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

“You didn’t recognize him?” James pipes up.

She shakes her head. “Recognize him? What are you talking about? What does this have to do with Jimmy…”

It’s more than obvious when she starts putting it together. Her eyes widen and she shakes her head again.

“No,” she says quietly, then again more loudly. “No. That man… That couldn’t be Jimmy. His hair… and his eyes... No, that wasn’t… The news said he was a criminal. A dead criminal. It can’t…”

She looks at each of them in turn, silently pleading.

“It was Father,” James says quietly. “An old video of him, but it was him.”

“The man you knew as Jim Peters was named James Moriarty,” Sherlock adds. “He styled himself as a consulting criminal and ran a variety of illegal operations from London. While raising his son.”

“While raising _my_ son,” she corrects him at once, and it’s like a hand squeezing over Sherlock’s heart.

Before any of them can say another word, someone knocks on the door and doesn’t wait for an answer before opening it. A woman peeks in and looks around the room until her eyes settle on Angela.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Angie, but the kids are ready for the second part of the concert.”

When Angela nods, the woman retreats, though not before giving everyone in the room a puzzled look. Silence falls on them for a few seconds, broken by something coming past Angela’s lips that is a strange mix of a laugh and a sob.

“I’m not sure I remember how to play, but even if I did…”

Rather than finishing, she holds out her shaking hands in front of her.

Sherlock couldn’t say why he looks at James at that moment, but one look is all he needs to know what James is about to offer. There’s no time for Sherlock to even say a word.

Five minutes later, James is sitting at the piano with sheet music in front of him while the same woman who came to get Angela introduces the three children about to play. Angela herself is seated in the back of the room, Sherlock and John next to her. A few seconds after James and the other children start playing, she turns toward Sherlock and asks in a whisper, “Jimmy taught him, didn’t he?”

It’s so odd to hear her call Moriarty ‘Jimmy’…

“He did,” Sherlock replies, maybe more tersely than needed.

She gives Sherlock a glance before turning her full attention on James again, leaning forward a little in her seat. John unexpectedly settles his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, drawing his eyes to him. His expression spells out quite clearly, ‘Are you okay?’ but Sherlock has no desire to answer, nor does he want to be coddled. He shrugs his shoulders, and John’s hand falls away.

James accompanies two more groups of students before Angela speaks again.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” she whispers without taking her eyes off James. “It’s all too perfect, isn’t it? Here you come, without any warning, and show me a child that looks so much like my husband that I ache just looking at him. A child who plays the same instrument I do as gorgeously as my husband did. Who looks at me with eyes just full of the same hope I feel. Am I supposed to just believe you? How do I know you’re not a con artist after my money? The paper said you got a reward for finding that horse. Is that what you expect from me? A reward for giving me someone who might be my son?”

John’s hand returns to Sherlock’s tensing shoulder, but this time it warns rather than comforts. Don’t make a scene, that slight tightening says. Think of James.

As though Sherlock was thinking of anything else.

“All I expect from you is that you try not to hurt him. He’s gone through enough already without you adding to it.”

He knows, at the moment he finishes speaking, that he just made a mistake. Then again, he’s starting to think he’s made mistake after mistake ever since James first asked about meeting his mother; he always knew that sentiment impaired his judgment, and he’s proved it a dozen times in a handful of weeks.

Angela’s eyes are already widening in concern, and her question is all too predictable.

“Adding to what exactly? What has he gone through? What has happened to my son?”

John’s hand squeezes once; another warning, echoed by the way the people seated a couple of rows in front of them turn back to give them curious glances. She didn’t bother whispering, this time. Sherlock stares at them until they face forward again. Only then does he say, very quietly, “You were just questioning whether any of this is true and now you call him your son?”

She glares at him but says nothing.

“He’s safe now that he lives with me,” Sherlock adds after a few seconds. “That’s what matters.”

Her features harden as she clenches her teeth, and Sherlock can suddenly see bits of James in her—of his stubbornness, and strength of will. He’s sure she’ll push, but she takes him by surprise when she says, “What now? If I read between the lines, you didn’t bring him here to stay with me.”

It’s a small relief that she understands that much. Sherlock only wishes he knew what to tell her. All James said when asked this same question was that he just wanted to meet her. Somehow, Sherlock doubts things will stop here, however much he wants them to.

“When we’re done here,” he finally says, “I’m taking him back to London. After that, it’ll be up to him.”

Long seconds trickle by to the sound of piano and violins playing together. Angela is looking forward again—looking at James. When this music piece ends, she excuses herself and stands. Before the next group is ready to start, she goes to James, sitting next to him at the piano though she lets him play without joining him. Even from a distance, Sherlock can see the tiny smile pulling at James’ lips.

“I’m still here.”

John’s words are brittle, ready to break and let out… Sherlock isn’t too sure what. Blinking, he turns to look at him. He’s crossed his arms over his chest and is staring straight ahead. His expression is one Sherlock hasn’t seen in a while, but he remembers it well.

John is upset.

And Sherlock doesn’t have the beginning of a clue as to why.

“John?”

“You’re taking him back to London? He’s safe now that he lives with you? Do I have a place in all that?”

Sherlock blinks again, still confused.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” John cuts in sharply, then offers a quiet sigh before repeating, “I know. I’ll just… go see if they have coffee somewhere. I’ll be outside when you’re ready to go.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving Sherlock to wonder what just happened—to wonder if he should follow or give him space.

In the end, he stays where he is, watching James play, watching how close Angela is to him, barely hearing any note. Three more songs and the concert is finally over. Angela takes James’ hand and stands with him, asking the audience for a round of applause in his honor. James blushes, but he’s smiling brightly when he comes to Sherlock, excitement shining in his eyes. Angela trails behind, parents and students wanting to talk to her, and Sherlock is grateful for a moment alone with James.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asks.

James’ smile fades away instantly.

“So soon? But…”

He looks back to where Angela is nodding at whatever a parent is telling her, though her eyes are not leaving James.

“She’s busy,” he murmurs, as though to himself, then turns back to Sherlock, and looks around. “Where’s John?”

Sherlock clears his throat.

“He’s waiting for us outside.”

He doesn’t know if it’s his tone or his words that alert James that something is off, but he picks up on it right away. His eyes narrow and he looks at Sherlock critically.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Is he upset with me?”

“Not everything is about you,” Sherlock huffs, less annoyed by James’ persistence than he is by the way he’s always so quick to blame himself.

“Upset with you, then,” James goes on, now frowning. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Sherlock hisses. “And even if I did, it hardly concerns you.”

James is about to reply when Angela joins them. She looks at them both, curious about what they were talking about, but all James says is, “We’ve got to go back to London.”

From her expression, it’s clear she thinks that’s what they were discussing – and just as clear that she thinks Sherlock is forcing James to leave.

“But you just arrived!” she protests. “We’ve barely had any time to talk!”

Even as she finishes, a woman approaches and taps Angela’s shoulder to get her attention. Mid-thirties, engaged, teacher at the school; art, maybe. She speaks in a quiet voice that doesn’t disguise her difficulties with speech, her hands flashing sign language at the same time.

“Karen Lester’s parents would like to talk to both of us. I think it’s about…”

She falls silent, her eyes briefly drifting toward Sherlock and James, and finishes with sign language only. Sherlock’s signing is a little rusty, but it might be something about a boy. Angela sighs and nods, signing and speaking her reply.

“Would you please take them to my office? I’ll be right there.”

As the woman steps away, Angela turns back to look at James, but her gaze flick toward Sherlock when she asks, “When can we see each other again? I won’t be so busy next time.”

“Next weekend?” James pipes up at once, turning a hopeful look to Sherlock.

Sherlock wishes he could say no. He wishes he could say this was all a mistake, a misunderstanding, they’re not related after all and there’s no reason for them to ever see each other again.

Instead, he hears himself agreeing that they can have lunch together at the pub in the town square next Sunday. And every word feels like one step closer toward a cliff, until it’s not a matter of whether he’ll fall, it’s a matter of when.


	12. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience and indulgence. Thank you for your comments and kudos. Thank you for caring as much as i do about this singular OC and his family.

The drive back home, amazingly enough, is even worse than the drive from London. And just as silent.

Sherlock’s eyes are on the road, sheer habit forcing his hands and feet into movement whenever needed, but his mind is not on his driving. His mind is not focused on anything, actually. It feels blank, like a blackboard wiped clean, nothing left on the slate but chalk residue that muddles everything. He’s trying to gather his thoughts, to review what happened, to figure out where they’re going from here, but nothing sticks. Logic is unreachable, and all that’s left is an indefinable fear in the pit of his stomach, the same fear he felt, months ago, when John said he would leave 221B.

In the passenger seat, John’s arms are crossed, his eyes closed. He’s not asleep, his body is too stiff for that, his breathing too shallow, but he has all but removed himself from possible conversation. Not that Sherlock would even know what to say to him. He thinks he can see how he upset John, but explaining that ‘we’ and ‘us’ are words that still don’t come easily to his lips even now probably wouldn’t help much. An apology, then? But to say what? ‘Sorry for being me’? It’s not like John doesn’t know who he is and what he’s like.

James is just as quiet, though his eyes, whenever they meet Sherlock’s in the rearview mirror, speak volumes. He keeps glancing pointedly toward John, as though to demand that Sherlock fix whatever is going on _now_. Shouldn’t he be thinking about what just happened, about meeting his mother, rather than trying to interfere in Sherlock and John’s relationship?

Unless he doesn’t want to think about it? Why wouldn’t he want to think about it?

Sherlock can’t figure that out, either.

After what feels like an entire lifetime of driving, they finally enter London just as night is falling. Being in the city, in streets he knows as well as the back of his own hand or the curves of his violin, should bring some calm to his mind and allow him to think again – the way it always did.

But not this time.

He drives straight to Baker Street, stopping the car without shutting the engine.

“I’ll get the car back to the rental place,” he says, subdued. “Don’t wait for me for dinner.”

For a moment, John looks at him; his pinched lips make it clear that there are words on his tongue demanding to be voiced. All he offers however is a sharp nod. He doesn’t bang the door shut behind him, but it still feels extraordinarily loud.

“Sherlock?”

He meets James’ eyes again in the mirror, silently inviting him to go on. But James only bites his bottom lip, shakes his head and exits the car. Sherlock waits until the door has closed on them, the knocker swinging lightly, before he drives off. He takes the long way around to return the car, and rather than catching a cab back home he starts on foot.

A chill has fallen onto the city, and a fine rain starts and stops intermittently. Sherlock is aware of it, but it’s just data, not something that touches him in any way as he goes on.

One step in front of the other. One street after the other. But still no thought coalescing in his mind, only threads that fray and tangle, forming knots he can do nothing but snip to start over.

When he finds a door in front of him, he looks up, expecting to find the familiar brass numbers. The door is unmarked, however—and the wrong color. Wrong neighborhood.

Wrong home.

And still, Sherlock opens the door anyway. With a gloved finger, he enters James’ birthday backward on the security keypad. He walks in but stops just past the closing door, unsure why he’s even here. He’s only been in this house twice, but both instances left marks on his mind that should keep him away. And yet, here he is.

With slow, heavy steps that leave wet prints in his wake, he walks around the first floor, passing from room to room without stopping, eventually going up the staircase, past paintings whose frames are covered in dust, past the door of what once was James’ room, past the dark stain on the wooden floor, up another flight of stairs.

Everywhere, he sees shadows of what might have been – of a little boy growing up loved and happy with his parents. No guns here, no nannies, no punishments. No criminal mastermind either, but rather the ‘Jimmy’ that Angela once knew.

Long ago – God, it hasn’t even been a full year – he told James that he doesn’t do ‘what if’s. So why is he playing this trick on himself now? What is the point of this?

Being angry with his own irrationality doesn’t stop him from going up toward the upper floor, but he freezes on the next to last step when his phone chimes with an incoming text. Part of him expects John or James to be asking where he is and when he’ll be back. Instead, the text is from his brother.

_That bad, is it?_   
_MH_

Somehow, to see the situation put into such succinct but accurate words breaks whatever dam was blocking Sherlock’s mind and he staggers as everything floods back into him. Every word that woman said, every word James gave her in return. Every gesture, every look – and every unvoiced expectation.

He doesn’t quite realize he’s sitting down until his arse slips on the very edge of one step and hits the next step. His hand is still clenched on his phone, though he has yet to answer when a second text comes in.

_I’m sure you’ll tell me to mind my own business, but is there anything I can do?_   
_MH_

Staring at the words, Sherlock swipes a finger over them. It’s not just his life, his mind that living with James changed. It wasn’t so long ago that Mycroft would have radiated smugness at things taking a turn for the worse after Sherlock refused his help.

Is there anything he could do right now? Of course. Without even thinking all that hard, Sherlock can think of three ways in which Mycroft could ensure Angela never enters their lives again – and that’s without harming her. But it’s too late for that.

In hindsight, Sherlock understands his own mistake. He wanted the waiting, the uncertainty to be over with, so he rushed through it all. Both Mycroft and John tried to tell him to slow down, to think it through, but it always comes back to the same thing, doesn’t it? Matters of sentiment blind him and cloud his judgment.

_There’s a car outside waiting to take you home._   
_MH_

Yes, he should go home. There’s nothing here for him but more fear. He pockets his phone without answering and starts back down the staircase. He’s sure Mycroft will be informed the moment he climbs into the car. Actions speak louder than words, don’t they?

* 

The scent of food lingers in the stairwell, and before Sherlock reaches the landing he knows they ordered Indian take-out. There’s a single box of food in the center of the kitchen table; his, he guesses, though he doesn’t think he can stomach food at the moment. Besides, it has to be cold by now. Apparently he was walking around for close to three hours.

He finds them in the sitting room, together yet seemingly entire worlds apart. John is at the desk, pecking at his laptop’s keyboard with what looks like exaggerated slowness even for him. James, ensconced in the sofa, holds his e-reader inches from his nose, but one look is all Sherlock needs to know he’s not reading. Whether he stopped when he heard Sherlock come up or hasn’t been reading for a while, however, is impossible to guess.

The two of them turn their eyes to Sherlock as he enters the room and he stills, aware that he should say something – to each of them, to both of them, but _what_ to say is still an unanswered question.

“You’re drenched,” John remarks in a flat tone after a few seconds of silence.

It takes the time of a couple of blinks for the words to start making sense, and Sherlock looks at himself with some surprise. Drenched indeed; the rain penetrated his coat down to his suit, and only now is he beginning to feel the cold. He passes a hand through his hair and it comes away dripping wet.

“It’s raining,” he says, and immediately wants to roll his eyes at himself. Since when does he make it a habit of stating the obvious? “I’ll go take a shower.”

He leaves his wet clothes and shoes in a pile on the floor of his bedroom and gets into the shower. For a few seconds, the water is about the same temperature the rain was, but it warms up quickly. As hot as it gets, however, it doesn’t stop Sherlock from shivering. He goes through the motions – shampoo, lather, rinse, soap, washcloth – but the entire time, his hands shake, as does his entire body.

Only when John tugs the curtain open and steps in behind him, only when he wraps his arms around Sherlock’s torso does the trembling start to subside.

“Want to tell me what you were thinking, walking around in the rain?”

His words are a whisper at the back of Sherlock’s neck. For a brief moment, Sherlock thinks he doesn’t want James to hear them – but no, that can’t be it because just then music rises, muffled by the sound of rushing water as well as the distance between James’ room and the bathroom. He’s playing the violin. Brahms. A lullaby. One of the first things Sherlock ever played for him. Is that a message? The same message John’s renewed whisper hints at?

_I know you’re upset but it’s going to be fine._

“Sherlock? Talk to me, please.”

John’s arms tighten just a little more with his request, and what ought to feel constraining seems to allow Sherlock to breathe more easily instead; how strange.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” he manages to say.

Being unable to see John’s reaction should make it harder to go on, but somehow the opposite turns out to be true and words spill out of him almost as freely as the water flowing from the showerhead.

“I didn’t mean to exclude you from the conversation. I’m well aware that you’ve been taking a larger role in James’ life and I’m grateful for it. Grateful for us being a family. If I accidentally implied otherwise it was only because I’m still not used to being part of an ‘us’.”

It feels too simplistic, too formal, too weak of an apology to satisfy John and Sherlock is already scrambling to find better words. He barely realizes what John is doing when his hold on Sherlock changes and, with a hand on his arm and the other on his hip, he makes Sherlock turn around. Even as Sherlock blinks, chasing away the droplets clinging to his eyelashes, John cups the back of his head and draws him down to meet his mouth.

It’s… not what Sherlock expected. Not what he’d have asked for, either, had he been given a choice. But it might possibly be the exact thing he needed right now.

John’s lips are warm, a little chaffed at one corner but still soft. They part against Sherlock’s, slowly, almost lazily, an invitation more than a demand. Someone makes a tiny, almost desperate sound – not Sherlock, definitely not, he doesn’t make sounds like that – and John deepens the kiss even as he draws Sherlock’s body closer still. Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, prick to prick, and while Sherlock would have bet anything his body would take no interest in the proceedings, the feel of John’s hardening flesh spurs a mirror reaction from him.

“Bed?” John suggests against his mouth before nipping at Sherlock’s bottom lip.

Sherlock groans and, realizing his hands are still at his sides, finally pushes himself into movement, sliding one hand to the small of John’s back and the other between them.

“Here,” he whispers back.

His hand curls around both their pricks, pressing them together, but at his first slide upward he loses his grip. John’s hand joins his and their fingers entwine, forming a channel around slick, burning flesh.

Their mouths find each other once more. Their hands find their rhythm. And somehow, in between quiet moans, bucking hips and fingernails raking along the scars on his back, Sherlock finds himself again.


	13. Beautiful Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With my thanks to aestheticate, oncomingtragedy, dulcimergecko, asettledsky and starrla89 on tumblr for helping me with my music conundrum. <3

It could be a Sunday like any other Sunday. It certainly looks like any other Sunday. John and James are having a late breakfast while Sherlock lounges on the sofa with his laptop. Their idle chatter about the relative merits of various flavors of jam and honey barely registers with Sherlock’s mind. Just enough to serve as comfortable background noise to his thoughts – just enough for him to know they’re not talking about anything important.

Not talking about yesterday, about Angela, about what will happen next weekend or beyond that.

They’re studiously avoiding the topic, Sherlock would even say. And he’s quite happy to do the same. He doesn’t try to fool himself into thinking they won’t have to talk about it eventually, but for now he enjoys a quiet morning of ignoring what’s coming in favor of solving a few cases that landed in his email inbox. Nothing any higher than a three—and certainly nothing that’d warrant getting out of his pajamas and dressing gown—but it’s enough of a distraction for now.

By mid-morning, John delivers the announcement Sherlock expected. He missed his usual visit to the graveyard yesterday since they were in Wales, so he’s going today. The parting kiss he offers before leaving, complete with tangled fingers in the curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck, is a wordless assurance that yes, things are fine between them. That’s at least one less thing to worry about.

Once John’s steps have faded down the staircase, Sherlock closes his laptop and sets it on the floor. Fingertips steepled under his chin, he waits for the other thing he’s been expecting. It doesn’t take long before James, who had retreated to his room after breakfast, tiptoes back into the sitting room. He comes to John’s chair, leaning against it rather than sitting as he asks, sotto voce, “Are you busy? Is this a quiet time?”

Sherlock could pretend it is, but he’d only delay the inevitable.

“Go ahead,” he says, holding back a sigh, but while James now sits in the armchair, the topic isn’t the one Sherlock expected. Or at least, not exactly.

“I was wondering, about my mind palace… Can I still make changes to the layout or is it too late for that now that it’s set in my mind?”

Sitting up the better to see James, Sherlock asks, “I assume you’ve already tried to make those changes and it didn’t work?”

James nods. His hands are clasped loosely on his lap, giving an appearance of calm, but his eyes tell a different story.

“What are you trying to do exactly?” Sherlock asks, though he thinks he knows.

James confirms his suspicions.

“I need a new room but I can’t get it to hold in my mind.” He gestures vaguely at the wall behind Sherlock. “I tried making a door there and a room behind the wall but…” He shrugs.

“The image of this room is too strong in your head to change it now,” Sherlock says. “That’s actually a good thing. But you should be able to make a door elsewhere. Close your eyes and get to your starting point. Where are you?”

James rests his head against the back of the armchair and closes his eyes, frowning in concentration.

“Outside. In front of the door.”

“All right. Open it and get in. Start going up. Do you have clues attached to the steps?”

His eyes still closed, James nods.

“Stop on the landing. What’s on your right?”

James’ frown deepens. “More steps and then the flat,” he says, his tone making it clear he thinks it’s obvious and doesn’t understand why Sherlock is asking this.

“What about on your left?”

“On the left?” He opens his eyes to give Sherlock a confused look. “There’s nothing on the left.”

“Yes there is. There’s a door. Close your eyes again. Look left on the landing. There’s a door. What color is it?”

After a beat, James replies, his voice questioning, “Brown?”

Sherlock doesn’t respond and only waits. After a beat, James says with more assurance, “No, red. And it has a bronze knocker. And a frosted glass panel.”

The rest of Sherlock’s suspicions are confirmed. It’s the door to Angela’s townhouse that James is describing. It’s clear what memories James will stash behind it.

“What I’d suggest,” Sherlock says, keeping his voice neutral, “is that you build a single room on the other side of that door to begin with, but visualize a door or two from the start. Keep them closed for now, and if you need more space in the future, you can open them and add more rooms.”

James is nodding before Sherlock even finishes explaining, showing that he understands. He doesn’t close his eyes however, doesn’t start working on his changes the way Sherlock thought he would. 

“I’ll work on it tonight,” he says before Sherlock can ask. “Can we… It’s been a long time since we had a violin lesson.”

Of their own accord, Sherlock’s lips curve into a small smile.

“Get your violin, then.”

While James hurries up to his room, Sherlock stands and puts his laptop away. He’d be lying if he claimed he’s not pleased right now. It has indeed been quite a while. They’ve been busy, both of them, and the keyboard upstairs seemed to satisfy James’ musical needs. 

Unless Sherlock is mistaken, this simple request is about more than music, though. It feels like a peace offering – not that they need any such thing. Needed or not, it’s a welcome request, much more so than the discussion they still haven’t had.

As he pulls the bow out of the case and starts applying rosin, he’s already thinking of what they could play today. They’re definitely staying away from Bach, but what should they turn to instead? 

He picks up his violin just as James returns to the sitting room, and while he watches him cross the room an idea pops into his head. He sets bow to strings and tries to remember how the song starts. The introduction escapes him, but the main melody starts flowing under his bow – coming to an abrupt stop when he realizes he started too low. He tries again, aware of James’ curious gaze on him as he tightens his bow and starts applying rosin.

“Is this what we’re playing today?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply right away. He’s having difficulties remembering the next part of the song. He never truly committed it to memory. It has been a long time since he heard it, and even longer since he tried to transpose it for violin. He remembers his instructor being appalled that he was ‘sullying’ his violin with ‘sentimental tripe written for the masses’, but then again doing things that upset his instructor was half the fun of his lessons.

Besides, for some incomprehensible reason, he does enjoy the song. The words mean nothing to him, but the melody is pleasant.

Or rather, the words used to mean nothing to him.

“I like this song,” James says, and there’s something odd in his voice, like the echo of the little boy he once was. “But it doesn’t sound quite right, does it?”

Part of Sherlock wants to ask when James heard this, because the idea of Moriarty playing John Lennon for his darling boy is disconcerting to say the least, but there are enough shadows looming over them today. No need to add any more.

“No, it doesn’t sound right,” he agrees, lifting his bow off the strings. “I’ll work on a transposition for another lesson.” After a beat he adds, “If you want to learn it.”

“I do like it,” James says in a careful tone, holding Sherlock’s gaze.

He doesn’t explicitly say that the memories he has of the song are not bad ones, but it’s right there, in his eyes. Sherlock gives a nod and pulls a drawn-out note from his violin.

“De Beriot?” he offers.

James raises his violin to his neck, though he tilts his head minutely the other way. 

“I don’t think I know anything from him,” he says. “But I thought… Could we finish the four Seasons? We only have Winter left.”

How much of the request comes from James’ need to finish any music piece he starts, Sherlock wonders, and how much from his actual enjoyment of this particular composition? He didn’t seem to be all that enthralled with Autumn. Then again, Sherlock doesn’t care much for it either. Winter is more interesting. And when James masters it, it’ll be even more interesting for them to play it together. Sherlock doesn’t think he’ll mind playing the accompaniment.

Bows to strings, they face each other. Sherlock starts with the second movement – he finds it a little easier, and after all it has been a while since James learned something new on the violin. Better to get back into it gradually.

Just a few notes rise from his violin, like during that first lesson in which things finally ‘clicked’. James’ eyes are narrowed, observing attentively. As soon as Sherlock stops, he slides his bow up… but stops mid-movement, grimacing, and tries again. A better starting note this time, but the tempo isn’t quite right. Without a word, Sherlock plays the same notes again. James’ rendition still isn’t perfect on his second attempt, but he immediately tries again, and this time he gets it right. They move on to the next bit.

Note after note, phrase after phrase, they work their way through the piece, and James’ playing grows smoother as he gets reacquainted with his violin. By the time they’ve played through the entire movement twice together, Sherlock figures they’re ready to start from the beginning. But first…

“By yourself this time,” he tells a smiling James. “Mind your fingering toward the end, it gets a little muddled.”

James nods and shifts his shoulders a little to loosen them up. When he starts again, the barest tip of his tongue is caught between his lips in concentration. Lowering his violin, Sherlock merely plucks a few accompanying notes here and there. He’s aware that someone’s coming up the steps – two someones, Mrs. Hudson’s gait betrayed by her bad hip and someone else, probably a woman wearing flat-heeled shoes, probably a client – but he doesn’t care much right now, not when pride fills his chest.

He can’t remember either of his parents telling him they were proud of him. Whatever his achievements were, Mycroft had always done at least as well, and more was always expected of Sherlock. He had no idea that he’d ever feel like this. It’s silly, really. He’s teaching James, true, but it’s James’ innate skills along with his work that produce the almost perfect notes that rise from his violin. Sherlock’s role is secondary. Not enough that he should feel pride.

But he does. God, he really does. And when James finishes, surely Sherlock should tell him.

Except that James doesn’t finish. His bow comes to a standstill just a couple of seconds after Mrs. Hudson walks in behind Sherlock. A long note lingers in the room as James’ eyes, looking past Sherlock, blink twice and widen. Not a reaction he’d have upon seeing Mrs. Hudson. The person she brought upstairs, then.

Sherlock knows, before he turns, who he’ll find there. Something aches inside his chest, and anger is like a flashfire, swallowing everything.

When he faces the door, Mrs. Hudson tutts and shakes her head.

“Honestly, Sherlock. What did you do to the doorbell this time?”

He doesn’t reply, his gaze already sliding past her to the woman a step to the side. Angela is wearing faded jeans and a crisp white shirt today, her raincoat already folded over her arm. Her hair, so severe in its bun yesterday, now falls over her shoulders, windswept. She’s not wearing make-up, and heavy circles darken her eyes. She’s been crying. And not sleeping much.

“And is this how you dress to receive clients?” Mrs. Hudson prattles on. “It’s not decent, really. You should—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock interrupts tonelessly. “Don’t let us keep you any longer.”

Huffing, she starts turning away, but seems to think better of it and glances back at James, offering him a smile.

“And it was lovely, dear. You’ve made a lot of progress.”

James utters an absentminded word of thanks and Mrs. Hudson excuses herself. For a few seconds, they’re all as silent as they are still. Angela breaks the status quo.

“It really was lovely,” she offers, her voice raw with emotion. “I could hear you from the street. I knew it was you. I just… I knew.”

James practically glows at the praise. Sherlock grinds his teeth.

“Why don’t you play something else?” he suggests. “I’ll be right back.”

There must be something that betrays him in his voice, however neutral he tries to keep it, because James throws him a quick questioning look, but Sherlock is already stepping away, walking past Angela on his way to his bedroom. He very deliberately does not suggest she take a seat.

Behind him, James starts playing again. Even after closing the door, Sherlock can hear every note. Partita number one. The very first thing Sherlock taught him on the violin – and a piece his father taught him on the piano. 

So much history in so few notes.

And now he’s playing it for his mother…

Sherlock has never put clothes on faster in his life. When he comes back out, still slipping on his jacket, James is barely finishing the prelude. He lowers his bow when he sees Sherlock, and there’s an apologetic glint in his eyes when they flicker toward Angela.

Apology for what he was playing? For playing it for her? Or for the fact that she’s sitting in John’s chair? 

None of it is anything he has to apologize for, and Sherlock tries to put that reassurance in a brief smile and nod.

“I’ll go put my violin away,” James says, and his words, like his steps, are a little too fast. 

Sherlock didn’t expect him to leave Angela’s presence so quickly… unless he doesn’t want to be there for what comes next? Which begs the question, what does he think is coming next?

Sitting in his chair, Sherlock observes Angela, and she returns his stare.

“So,” he says after a few seconds, “you found my address. Not an impressive feat in itself, seeing how it’s on my website. Maybe you didn’t notice that my number is on there too. A phone call would have been a better first step.”

She shows absolutely no reaction to the rebuke in his words.

“I don’t think you can lecture me about first steps, Mr. Holmes. Not when the way you reintroduce my son into my life after thirteen years is by giving me an hour in his presence on a day when my entire staff, my students and their parents demand my attention, then leave without even giving me a way to contact you.”

Unbidden, Mycroft’s repeated offers to mediate the whole thing try to resurface in Sherlock’s mind. He pushes them away. He has no time for regrets now.

“It sounds like you don’t have doubts about who he is anymore,” he remarks. 

Only when she glances at his hand does he realize his fingers are tapping the armrest of his chair. It takes him a moment to recognize the rhythm of Partita number one. He makes himself stop.

“My doubts are the same,” Angela says quietly. “But my hopes are larger. I couldn’t wait a full week for that lunch.”

“So it seems,” he says dryly.

The urge to kick her out of his flat gnaws at his insides, but a whisper of sound in the hallway stops him and kicks his mind into overdrive. James is back to his old trick of eavesdropping – of course he is. He was pleased to see her, unannounced visit notwithstanding. If Sherlock sends her away now, he risks alienating James.

But isn’t the risk even greater if he lets them become too close? If she comes to love him—

Sherlock stops that train of thought immediately. There’s no if about it, is there? She visited her child’s grave for close to thirteen years. She already loves James, that blind, instinctive love mothers are said to offer their offspring. Once she gets to actually know him, she’ll only love him that much more. How could she not?

So the question is, does Sherlock have the right to deny James anyone’s love, especially someone related to him? It’s not as though his blood family has been all that loving so far, and Sherlock still remembers James’ fears, upon coming back from Ireland, that he might be destined to follow their example. If those fears are still there, if Angela can help alleviate them…

No, he can’t send her away.

But that doesn’t mean he has to welcome her into his home, either.

Only a second has elapsed while he was weighing his options. He stands and continues his previous thought, just a little louder for James’ benefit.

“Why don’t we go have lunch now, then?”


	14. A Piece of Paper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted Dec 27th - Happy Birthday, James...
> 
>  
> 
> My apologies for any typos or odd grammar - it's late but i needed to post this tonight. Or this morning, i suppose. I doubt I'll post again before the New Year so may 2017 treat you well - and bring all of us the best season 4 we could dream of.

“Angelo’s?”

Sherlock tries hard not to bristle at James’ suggestion, but when James immediately corrects himself, there’s still a trace of apology in his words.

“No, not Angelo’s. The Thai place three streets over?”

There’s a Thai restaurant closer than that, one that both Sherlock and James prefer to the one he suggested. He seems to be following the path of Sherlock’s thoughts much too easily.

“I’m sorry,” Angela says when James turns a questioning look at her. “I don’t care much for Thai cuisine. Maybe just a pub or something…” She offers a self-deprecating shrug and half smile. “I’ve only been to London once before so I know just one restaurant.”

They’re standing on the sidewalk. Three taxis have passed them already. No use getting into one until they know where they’re going—and the faster they get there, the sooner Angela will leave London.

“What restaurant is that?” Sherlock asks abruptly enough that she gives him a frown before answering.

“It was… a French restaurant. It was called Bel Canto, but it was years ago and anyway I’m not sure…”

She trails off when Sherlock raises a hand and hails a cab. He knows the place. Mycroft, for some incomprehensible reason, enjoys an occasional opera aria or two while dining. Maybe he sees it as multitasking.

The ride seems to take much too long. The deep silence doesn’t help. The maitre d’ gives Angela’s jeans an unimpressed look when they walk in, but when Sherlock swallows back his pride and drops his brother’s name, her attire is suddenly no more a problem than their lack of reservations.

They’ve only been seated for a few seconds, James across Angela and Sherlock on his right, before a man and a woman, both standing by the grand piano with a glass of wine in hand, start singing. It takes a second more before James’ eyes widen as he lets out a quiet, “Oh. I’ve been here before.”

Sherlock knows that look in his eyes, that slight hitch in his words—but Angela doesn’t. She pushes where Sherlock would have let James decide whether to say more or not.

“Did… did your father bring you here?”

All she needs is James’ slight nod before her face breaks into a smile even as her eyes tear up.

“He brought me here, too. We spent a weekend in London, and the last evening, he brought me here and…”

She looks at her left hand. She’s wearing her wedding and engagement rings.

She wasn’t wearing them yesterday, Sherlock would bet anything on it.

“He proposed,” he finishes for her, impatient to put an end to the topic.

He’s glad to see the waitress finally approach them. Not so glad that James is smiling like Christmas has come early. What he thinks of his father bringing him to the same place where he once proposed to his mother, Sherlock doesn’t care to imagine. Something sentimental, no doubt. His own chest feels too tight for no reason whatsoever.

They order quickly enough, and Sherlock gets the clear impression that James is showing off when he orders in perfect French. Angela is definitely impressed.

“He taught you, didn’t he?” she murmurs. “He was always so good with languages.”

A cutting edge grows in her words when she turns her gaze to Sherlock and says, “I looked him up, last night. Many articles claim he was just an actor, and you paid him to pretend he was a criminal so you could get credit for stopping him.”

There are many words rising to Sherlock’s lips—none of them should probably be uttered in front of a child, let alone polite company, but he doesn’t care about that. Before he can voice any of them, however, James offers a more appropriate reply, though no less forceful.

“It was Father’s plan to pretend to be an actor so he’d get Sherlock in trouble. He _was_ a criminal, and—”

The waitress returning with their drinks stills his tongue, but even after she leaves James doesn’t start again, keeping his eyes on his empty plate and his lips pinched tightly. It might have something to do with the renewed tears in Angela’s eyes. This time they weren’t brought on by fond memories. Sherlock has a hard time not rolling his eyes. She’s the one who brought up Moriarty; she has no one to blame but herself if she doesn’t like the truth.

“Jim Moriarty was many things,” Sherlock says dryly. “Including an excellent actor. I doubt either of us knew the real Jim, but if we can agree that James, having spent close to ten years with him, knew him better than anyone else, maybe we can move away from a topic that bothers you.”

Just as he finishes, his phone chimes with a text message. He pulls it out. It’s John, of course.

_Back home but you’re not. Mrs. Hudson said you had a client? Why didn’t you text me?_

As Sherlock types a reply or two, Angela pointedly turns her head to make it clear she’s addressing James when she says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you by talking about it.”

_Not a client. Angela. Lunch at Bel Canto. Feel free to come join us before I do or say something not good.  
SH_

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock sees James glance at him before he answers.

“It doesn’t upset me to talk about Father. Just… Sherlock’s right, the Jim you knew isn’t the one who raised me.” After a beat, he adds, “How did you meet?”

_Angela? She just showed up?_

“In Uni. We took the same classical literature class.”

_That bad?_

“Oh really? What did you study?”

Sherlock looks up. There’s nothing in James’ eyes but curiosity, nothing in his voice but interest. Sherlock wishes they’d change the topic as he suggested, but he can understand that they only have one thing in common right now.

_No, not that bad. Maybe I wish it were. ETA?  
SH_

John’s response takes an extraordinarily log time to come in. Their food arrives and the conversation continues at the table. Sherlock keeps his eyes on his phone and makes it a point of blocking out Angela’s words, keeping only an ear out for the emotions transpiring through James’.

_I don’t think I would be of any help to you or James if I came.  
If that’s all right with you I’ll wait for you two to come home._

There’s a question in that last sentence – does Sherlock actually want him there? But it’s the rebuke Sherlock imagines in the first that troubles him – or is that a reminder of how Sherlock all but ignored him yesterday?

“Sherlock? Is everything all right? Do you have a case?”

He looks up from his phone to find James peering at him, apparently genuinely worried. But worried about what? Worried that something is wrong or worried that a case will cut their lunch short?

“Everything’s fine,” Sherlock says tonelessly. “How’s your food?”

“The soup’s good. How about yours?”

A pointed look at Sherlock’s untouched plate and Sherlock sighs. He makes a production of taking a bite of his vol-au-vent, aware that Angela is observing their interaction though thoroughly uncaring about what she might think. She gets James’ attention back by asking him what foods he enjoys, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to answer John’s text.

_I suppose there’s no need for both of us to suffer through a bad rendition of Carmen.  
SH_

After only a second, he adds, _As long as you do know you are missed. SH_

He eats a second vol-au-vent, tasting it as little as the first one but hoping to placate James’ renewed frown – except that the frown isn’t about Sherlock’s food, is it? Sherlock tunes back to the conversation, biting back a curse when he realizes what Angela is saying.

“Did you go to Thailand with your father, then?”

“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock cuts in before James has to decide whether to lie or bring Moran in the conversation. “Have you traveled anywhere else other than Switzerland?”

She turns a startled look to him.

“How do you know I’ve been to—”

“You said so yesterday. Said you were there last December.”

Sherlock can see her trying to remember saying as much; she didn’t. Admitting that they have a full dossier about her from Secret Services, however, doesn’t strike Sherlock as a good idea. Her uncertainty at least serves in taking her off the topic of Thailand… though it brings her back to that of Moriarty.

“I go there every December,” she says, suddenly more somber. “We went there…” She turns a weak smile to James as she continues. “Your father and I went there for our honeymoon. I’ve been going back every year since he died. Since I _thought_ he died. I’m not sure… I don’t know if I’ll go back again.”

They don’t say another word until their main course is in front of them.

“You loved him very much,” James says then, and while his words are a whisper, they’re not a question.

“I did.” She sighs. “I still do. Even knowing… even now. God help me, but I still love the dead man who stole my son from me.”

She looks close to tears - _again_. Is the woman going to cry every time ‘Jimmy’ enters the conversation, and is she going to continue ushering him in? How utterly—

James reaches out over the table and rests his hand on top of Angela’s, very gently, as though he’s not sure he's allowed to do it.

“So do I,” he says very softly.

—painful.

*

Lunch takes forever. Coming home, even longer. James suggests walking as it’s only a half hour walk back and the nice weather is holding. Sherlock walks three steps behind the two of them, not even pretending he’s not listening – she’s talking about her school; boring – alternating glaring at the back of Angela’s head and sending John text messages about the many unlikely accidents that might befall her. 

John vetoes all of them.

When finally they’re standing in front of 221B, Sherlock would be glad to send the woman away, but James asks if he can show her his room just for a minute before they say goodbye. Sherlock doesn’t manage to find a reason to say no.

He offers a frosty goodbye to her on the landing and lets them go up. The next visit is already set up for the following Sunday. When he walks into his sitting room, it’s both with a sense of relief and foreboding, and the glass of scotch John puts in his hand does nothing to change that. Sherlock drinks it anyway and sits in his chair, closing his eyes as he processes everything that happened since Angela walked into their flat.

“That bad?” John asks once more, sotto voce, after a few seconds.

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, and finds John sitting in his chair across from him but leaning forward so that he’s close, so very close… It wouldn’t take much to reach out to him for physical comfort—and the simple fact that Sherlock is even thinking about such a thing is a clear answer to John’s question.

“Yes,” he breathes. “That bad.”

Steps are coming down the upstairs bedroom. One person. Flat-heeled shoes. They don’t stop on the landing and continue down. The front door opens and closes.

“That bad,” Sherlock says again. “I’m going to lose him, John. We’re going to lose him. He only just met the woman but she’s not a stranger to him anymore. It won’t be long before he calls her ‘mom’. Do you know how long it took him to call me ‘dad’ and mean it?”

John’s lips do a strange little twist that can’t really be called a smile.

“Are you asking me how long it took to a traumatized child suffering from PTSD triggered by years of abuse from two different men to trust you and open up to you? Because the answer, Sherlock, is ‘astonishingly quickly’, regardless of any actual number you have in mind.”

Sherlock bows his head and allows himself a moment to take in John’s words. On a purely intellectual level, he understands what John means, and he thinks he has a point. But John wasn’t there during that lunch. He didn’t see the way James acts with Angela, didn’t hear the way he sounds when he talks to her. Sherlock is more used to following his head than his heart, but he’s learned to at least listen to the traitorous organ, and right now it’s claiming one thing so loudly that Sherlock can’t hear anything else.

“I’m going to lose him,” he says again. “In one week, maybe two, he’ll call her ‘mom’. When school lets out for the summer, he’ll ask to stay with her for a while. By the time summer ends—”

“Do I have a say in any of this?” James asks as he walks into the room.

With his hands in his pockets and his tie missing from his collar, he could look relaxed—except that his fists are balled up so tightly Sherlock can see every knuckle straining against the fabric.

“You do have a say,” Sherlock says blankly as he watches him stand there. “Months ago you asked to stay with me. It was your choice then. It’s still your choice now.”

“Months ago,” James repeats on the same tone of voice, “I asked to stay with you when I’d just met you. Do you really think I’ll change my mind now that I wear your name?”

“What I think is that it’s your choice,” Sherlock says, ignoring the way the words tear at his throat like crushed glass.

John shifts a little to face James, and his foot settles right against Sherlock’s, pressing hard enough that it’s not accidental. It isn’t much, but Sherlock is grateful for the gesture of comfort just the same.

“What I think,” he goes on, “is that she’s your mother, and you think she’s a good person, and you get along, and—”

“And she doesn’t know the first thing about me,” James interrupts again. “I do like her, very much. I like talking to her. You’re right, I think maybe I’d like spending a bit of time in Wales this summer. But this is my home. And you, and John… you’re my family. And you know when I went to Thailand and with whom and why I don’t want to talk about it all that much. And you know that sometimes I need to hear I’m just like my father and sometimes I need to hear I’m nothing like him, and I know you mean it both times. So if it’s really my choice, I’m going to stay right where I am. All right?”

That last bit isn’t rhetorical, Sherlock realizes abruptly. James really needs to know that it’s all right – that he’s wanted, and trusted.

“All right,” Sherlock repeats, managing a thin smile.

“All right,” John echoes, and his smile is considerably larger.

James nods, but his fists are still balled up, and he remains where he is, standing in the middle of the sitting room.

“When I first got the text messages last winter,” he starts, but stops and shakes his head as though arguing with himself. 

The vols-au-vent try to find their way back up.

“James?”

James shakes his head again.

“I hid stuff from you when Philip was trying to get me,” he says bluntly, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s with no hesitation. “I promised myself I wouldn’t make that mistake again. When we were in my room, she asked if she could scrape the inside of my cheek with that little brush thing, like we did for Mycroft when he needed my DNA. I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse so I let her. But when I asked if she has doubts I’m her son, she said no. She said she just wants a piece of paper that can prove it to a judge.”


	15. Gambling

Sherlock has to knock twice before the door finally opens. Angela stands behind it, her expression going from startled to confused. Her eyes immediately look past him, searching – but there’s no one else there.

“Mr. Holmes? I thought we said one o’clock at the pub.”

She glances at her watch. It’s only half past noon.

“May I come in?”

Sherlock steps forward, inviting himself in, and she’s still too rattled to do anything more than move aside and let him. He looks left and right, intense focus taking in everything, every small detail that might help later even if it now seems irrelevant. For all of the research Mycroft’s people did, there’s still a lot they don’t know about her – including how she’s going to respond to what he’s here to do.

*

“It’s a gamble.”

John pushes the papers in the middle of the kitchen table with two fingers, making it clear what he means.

“If she calls your bluff—”

“What’s the alternative?” Sherlock cuts in, irritated not by John’s words but by the whole situation.

John looks at him, then at Mycroft, finally at James.

“I don’t know,” he sighs.

*

Entering the sitting room, Sherlock claims an armchair. He finds it immensely satisfying to invade her space like this after she invited herself into 221B. Petty revenge, but he’ll take what he can.

“Mr. Holmes,” Angela says again, her voice strengthening now that she’s gathering her wits. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He gives her his most guileless smile.

“I’m here to help you, Angela. You wanted papers you can show a judge, so here you go.”

He holds the envelope he pulled from his coat to her, but she doesn’t reach for it right away. Shock is back on her face… and is that just an edge of fear? Sherlock schools his features, idly wondering what his smile became to get this reaction from her.

“Of course he told me,” he says, dropping the pleasant voice. “The moment you left. Did you get your results yet? I’m guessing you did. DNA tests don’t take much time, these days.”

She still doesn’t say anything, but she takes the envelope and opens it with trembling hands. She pulls out two pieces of paper. Looks at both, then stares at Sherlock. Never mind shock or fear. She’s angry now.

Good.

“Is this a joke?” she asks, her voice shaking in her anger. “You give me fake documents and—”

“Fake?” One hand on his chest, Sherlock feigns outrage. “Angie, you wound me. Don’t you remember our affair? Brief, I grant you, what with you being a newlywed and me…” He gestures vaguely. “But what a night it was. And we’ll always have James to remember it.”

Her eyes widen almost comically.

“Are you _mad_?”

“Not mad,” Sherlock replies, back to his normal voice. “But what I am is extremely convincing, whether in front of a judge or in front of the press. As convincing as these documents. Show them to whomever you want. No one will ever prove they’re anything but real.”

*

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asks again, scrutinizing both pieces of paper once more.

Mycroft rolls his eyes at him.

“Do you really expect me to be anything but thorough?”

“But what if there’s another test?” James asks in a quiet voice. “If she tells a judge this is fake and there’s another test…”

“Then the other test will say exactly the same thing,” Mycroft says, his voice considerably gentler than when he answered Sherlock but his fingers drumming on the kitchen table and betraying his impatience. “There are a seventy four labs in Britain that perform DNA analysis. Every single one of them would return the same results if asked to compare Sherlock’s DNA and yours.”

“And the birth records—” John starts, only to be interrupted by a pointed sigh.

“They were already ironclad when I first took care of that. Have you ever known me to do things halfway, John?”

The question might be directed at John, but it’s Sherlock Mycroft is looking at. He doesn’t say ‘Trust me’, but the words are right there in his eyes. Sherlock holds his gaze for a few seconds then nods.

*

Angela sits on the sofa across from Sherlock, abruptly enough that it seems her knees might have betrayed her. For a long, long moment, she just stares at him. Sherlock lets her as long as he can bear, but his patience breaks.

“I know you’ve already made overtures toward Kitty Riley. I know you’re meeting her this coming week. She was the logical choice. The person who gave the world the idea that Jim was innocent of everything he was accused of. She still doesn’t like me much. She’d be delighted to tell everyone how I stole your child. Win public opinion before you even go to a judge, is that it? But I have tabloid contacts too. And in my story, Jim faked his death because he discovered you cheated on him with me then spent the rest of his life trying to destroy me as his revenge. Much punchier, don’t you think? Although I’m not sure the parents of your students will be all that impressed that their perfect headmistress cheated on her husband and used money from his illegal activities to fund her school.”

Angela shakes her head and finally finds her voice back.

“Why? Why would you… You brought him to me and then… why?”

“Because you went behind my back, Angela. I brought him to you, yes, because he wanted to meet you. He wanted to have a relationship with the only person left from his blood kin. He was so _happy_ that you’re a _good_ person. And here you go, asking him to keep secrets, preparing for a fight to get custody of him, never even asking him what _he_ wants.”

*

“Does it matter?”

All three adults fall silent at James’ quiet question.

“Does it really matter what I want? If it all goes in front of a judge and the papers say both of you are my biological parents… It could go either way, couldn’t it?”

“You’re old enough that you’d be asked what you want,” John offers in a careful tone.

Although James gives a slight nod, there’s something in his eyes, in the way his shoulders droop ever so slightly. He noticed the obvious loophole in John’s reassurance: being asked what he wants does not guarantee that his wishes would be respected. Even with the best lawyers Mycroft can provide, it would still be a choice between the seemingly saintly headmistress of a school for children with special needs, and a man whose profession regularly puts him in danger, as documented by the press and John’s blog.

“It won’t get that far,” Sherlock says but what he means is, _I can’t let it get that far_.

*

Her hands still shaking, Angela reads once again the documents she holds. She knows them to be fake, of course, but does she realize it doesn’t matter what she knows, only what she can prove?

“Why are you doing this?” she asks again, plaintive.

“Why are _you_?” Sherlock shoots back. “I brought him to you. I was going to bring him back, as often as he wanted. You show up unexpectedly, and instead of showing you the door I gave you almost three hours with him. Why did you have to go and complicate everything?”

She looks up at him, and if her eyes seem a little watery, they still manage to look both fierce and defiant.

“Because I don’t want you to _give_ me time with him like you’re giving me a gift. He’s my son! He belongs with me, not you!”

“And he wants to live with me, not you,” Sherlock replies icily. “Which you’d know if you had bothered to ask him.”

“He’s just a child! He doesn’t know—”

“He’s thirteen. He spent ten of those years with his psychopathic father, who killed at least one nanny in front of him and who taught him to use a gun by practicing on small animals, and almost three more years with an associate of his father who wasn’t better in any way. Just a few months ago, he was emotionally manipulated and kidnapped by his grandfather. Force his hand now, force him to live with you, and the only thing that will happen is that you will lose him.”

*

“I don’t want her to know.”

It’s been hours since the ‘war council’, as Mycroft called it, ended. Hours since they worked out every detail and agreed about what will happen on Sunday. But here is James, coming back down long after he should have been asleep, whispering into the darkened sitting room. Sherlock’s bow stills on his violin.

“You don’t want her to know what?”

Silence stretches between them.

“I don’t want her to look at me like… like she pities me. Like I’m broken or something.”

For all that he’s still whispering, the pitch of his voice climbs a little higher, suddenly, betraying how upset he is at the thought.

“I won’t tell her anything you don’t want her to know,” Sherlock says slowly. “But she still needs to understand your childhood was anything but normal. She needs to see how important it is for all of us to respect your choices.”

Through the darkness, Sherlock can barely see James’ expression, but he does see that familiar movement of his hand going up, his teeth worrying at his thumbnail for a second before he drops his hand again.

“Don’t tell her Father hurt me,” he finally says. “And don’t tell her anything Sebastian did to me.”

Which still leaves Sherlock quite a lot of room to maneuver. He nods.

“All right. I won’t. Can I warn her about your panic attacks?”

Seconds trickle by, followed by another whisper.

“No. She doesn’t need to know. I’m better. I get better all the time. I haven’t had one in months.”

Three months and seven days, as far as Sherlock knows – but does that really mean James is getting better?

“All right,” he says again, but he’s not so sure it’s the right call.

*

Angela physically reels back as though Sherlock just struck her.

“You say these things about Jimmy—”

“No. James says these things about him. James told me about the nanny, and the gun. There is no reason for him to lie. Believe me or not, I couldn’t care less. But I dare you to look James in the eye and tell him you don’t believe him. I dare you to tell him you don’t care what he wants and you’ll drag him in front of a court because that’s what you want. Go ahead, Angela. Alienate your son. Lose him a second time. You can be sure it’ll be the last.”

He stands as he finishes. He’s done here. All the cards are on the table. It was a gamble, yes, to show his hand like this – the same way nuclear weapons are a gamble. Mutually assured destruction… but the main victim would be James. Sherlock is betting everything on the hope that she doesn’t want to hurt or lose James.

When it doesn’t look like she will say anything, he takes a step toward the door, only to stop when she raises her hand toward him, offering him back the documents he gave her.

“We won’t need those,” she says, her voice gravelly.

Sherlock takes them without comment.

“I’ll call Ms. Riley, cancel our appointment.”

He inclines his head to show he heard, nothing more.

“Can I…” She swallows so hard he hears her throat click. “Can I still see him?”

“One o’clock at the pub,” Sherlock says blankly. “And whenever he wants after that.”

She almost sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. If it was up to me, you’d never lay eyes on him again. But like I said, that’s his choice. I’ve decided to respect it. I hope for your own sake you do the same.”

He leaves without another word.

*

If both John and James look at Sherlock when he enters the pub, it’s with very different expressions. 

John’s eyes are hooded, his lips set in a grim line. Wary and ready. He’s ready for the worst, hopes for the best, and will do anything that is required of him. A doctor and a soldier, always.

James, in contrast, is almost vibrating with his excitement. Nothing but hope, for him. The hopes of a child who never asked about his mother while growing up but who craved to know her just the same.

“She heard me,” Sherlock says as he sits next to John. “She didn’t like what I had to say, but I’m fairly certain she understood this is not a game she wants to play.”

“Not a game at all,” John mutters, and takes a swig of his coffee.

“Is she coming, then?” James asks.

“I’d be surprised if she doesn’t arrive early. Do you want us to stay or…”

The flash of a guilty look is answer enough.

“We’ll get another table,” John says decisively. “Just give us a wave when you’re ready to go, okay?”

James nods and is about to say something, but his attention drifts to the door of the pub. Angela is just walking in. Under the table, John rests his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and squeezes briefly.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs. “There are tables outside. Nice day to have lunch on the terrace.”

Which is of course his way of insuring Sherlock won’t try to eavesdrop or analyze every gesture he catches sight of. Still, the idea leaves Sherlock a little uncomfortable and he’s about to say so – but then he meets James’ gaze again. It holds the same determination, the same directness as when he came downstairs to tell them Angela had swabbed his cheek. Giving him a half smile, Sherlock inclines his head. He doesn’t look at Angela on his way out.


	16. Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been unhappy with everything i write lately. My apologies if this chapter is subpar. Transition chapters never seem all that good.

“Your mother called me again. Third time this month.”

Sherlock makes a small noise, acknowledgment more than anything else, and takes another sip of coffee. The sun is bright enough today that there’s a bit of a glare reflected on the pub’s window, but he’s pretty sure he can see James smiling inside. Smiling at something Angela said or just—

“Your mother, Sherlock,” John says again even as he moves his chair a few centimeters to the side so that he’s blocking Sherlock’s line of sight. “ _Your_ mother. Calling _me_. You don’t think that’s odd?”

“Odd, no,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Predictable and manipulative, yes. Whatever experimental drugs Mycroft has her on seem to be working.”

So far, at least. Mycroft did say they might not have an effect for very long.

John takes a few bites of food, but his attention remains on Sherlock, too focused for Sherlock to bother moving his chair to get his eyes back on James.

“All right,” John says eventually. “Explain. How is it ‘predictable and manipulative’ for her to call me?”

Sherlock clucks his tongue. John could figure it out if he thought about it for two minutes—or if he didn’t let his feelings stand in the way.

“Think, John. What do you think would happen if she called me?”

Shaking his head, John snorts. Now he’s getting it.

“Nothing. You wouldn’t answer, would you?”

“Because I know what she wants and she already knows my answer. So she calls you instead, and hopes that you’ll plead her case for her.”

The door of the pub opens as someone walks out, and for a few seconds voices drift out. Sherlock tries to catch a familiar one, to no avail. Already the door is closing again, a flimsy barrier creating two separate worlds. Sherlock would give his left arm to know what’s going on inside—although that, too, is rather predictable. It is after all the last Sunday before summer.

“Not to be predictable and manipulative myself,” John says slowly, all amusement gone from his voice, “but experimental drugs or not, her time is running out. She wants to spend some of it with you. Don’t wait so long that you’ll regret it.”

“Not with me,” Sherlock corrects him almost automatically. “With James. She knows it’s too late to change whatever I might think, but she still can make sure James has the best possible opinion of her. What it will change for her, I cannot fathom.”

“Who would want their life to end with the knowledge that no one will miss them or mourn their passing?”

They’re talking about his mother, Sherlock is well aware of that, but somehow it’s the image of Jim Moriarty that jumps to the front of his mind. Jim Moriarty as he was in his last moments, smiling, offering Sherlock his hand to shake before he pulled out the gun.

What did he think would happen after his death? James asked the question, and Sherlock had no reply for him. He still has no reply now, but he wonders… Did he know Angela still mourned him? Were the ‘insurance’ payments the only link left between them, or did he check in on her, now and then? Sherlock wouldn’t have put it past him to even come here, maybe sit on the terrace of the pub and watch her visit the graveyard on the other side of the street. No doubt he'd have got a kick out of it.

Does she still come? She has no reason to, but she did admit she still loves ‘Jimmy’, so maybe before they arrive on Sundays, or after they leave—

John’s fingers snap in front of his nose and Sherlock gives a start, pulling out of his meandering thoughts.

“Where were you just now?” he asks with a grim smile. “Not with me, and I doubt it was with your mother either.”

A dozen possible answers cross Sherlock’s mind, each believable, and each no doubt more acceptable, from John’s perspective, than the truth. But as he meets John’s eyes, lined with wariness yet open – hopeful – Sherlock can’t bear to lie. This whole relationship thing is still new – it’s going to feel new for a long time, he suspects – but he’s fairly certain by now that lying is high on the list of ‘you shall not’ items.

“Moriarty,” he says simply.

John nods, his smile growing fainter still.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Do you think they talk about him in there?”

Sherlock has no idea, and he says as much. This is the fifth Sunday meeting between James and his mother. After the first one, Sherlock considered asking James what they’d talked about during those interminable two and a half hours, but in the end he didn’t, and he still hasn’t asked a single question. If something comes up that Sherlock needs to know about, he trusts that James will tell him. Everything else is private, isn’t it?

Whether or not they talk about Moriarty, these outings don’t seem to have had any adverse effect on James’ state of mind. He’s had a quietly relaxed air about him, these past few weeks. Not once has he needed some musical help to find sleep. Sherlock plays anyway – for himself. John has noticed and, every time, he sits nearby and listens for a while. When he decides it’s enough, he comes to Sherlock and holds out his hand until Sherlock puts the violin away and wraps his fingers around John’s. If he wasn’t there…

Sherlock can’t bear to think about what things would be like if he wasn’t there.

“Here they come,” he says suddenly, catching sight of them behind the glass just before James holds the door open for his mother.

They both come over, but while James sits at the end of the bench on John’s side of the table, Angela remains standing. Usually she just offers a word of goodbye and leaves, but today she stays there, her eyes on James… Sherlock waits for what he already knows is coming. It doesn’t take long.

“So we were thinking…” James starts, his eyes going back and forth between John and Sherlock.

‘We’. How easily he says that word. He still doesn’t call her ‘mom’, not as far as Sherlock knows, but suddenly Sherlock wonders if he does—just not in front of them.

“I mean, I told Angela about the competition. Is it all right if she comes to watch?”

And that’s… not what Sherlock expected. At all. For one thing, he was sure this would be about James spending part of the summer here. For the other, he thought James would tell her about the horseback riding competition he signed up for, if only to explain why they can’t meet next week, and Angela would just show up for it, no permission asked.

One brief look exchanged with John, who seems as baffled as Sherlock feels, and Sherlock has to give an answer before James starts worrying.

“Of course. Why not?”

James’ beaming smile quickly turns toward Angela.

“See? I told you it was no problem.”

She smiles back at him, but there’s something guarded in her eyes, something Sherlock can’t quite name and that he doesn’t like at all. How did she explain to James the need to get this permission first? Did she make Sherlock into some kind of bully who tries to keep her and James apart? No, that can’t be it. James wouldn’t fall for that.

Would he?

The question stays with Sherlock for the entire way home. If Angela wanted to drive a wedge between James and Sherlock, what better way to do it than to make herself into the innocent victim of Sherlock’s jealousy? That he’s been very careful to keep said jealousy under wraps means nothing, not when James has proved all too adept at deciphering Sherlock’s moods.

“You worry too much.”

Case in point.

Even as John lets out a little amused snort, Sherlock glances at the rear view mirror, meeting James’ eyes straight on.

“You worry too much,” James repeats. “I told Angela she worries too much but you do the same thing. She thinks you’re going to keep me from her, and you think I’m going to pick her over you. How do I get it through to both of you that neither thing is going to happen?”

This time, it’s a chuckle that passes John’s lips. Sherlock throws a glare his way but John ignores him, turning to grin at James. 

“Have you considered knocking their heads together? Maybe it’d shake something loose in those stubborn brains.”

“It might be worth a try,” James says deadpan. “Although I was rather hoping to avoid violence.”

Another look in the rear view mirror, this one tinted with worry; hearing James speak of violence is never all that pleasant. But there’s a light curve to his lips and no darkness in his eyes. Banter, nothing more.

“I can’t say I think much of that plan,” Sherlock said dryly. “Maybe you could just tell me not to worry and we could take things from there.”

“Would that be enough?” James asks, skeptical. “It’s not enough for Angela. I keep telling her you’re not going to use those papers unless she forces you to, but you really scared her.”

Sherlock glances at John again; he’s not amused any longer, not any more than Sherlock is. Scaring her was the goal, and James seemed to agree it was necessary at the time. Has he changed his mind?

“Is that what you two spend your time talking about?” John asks, and Sherlock is grateful to him for voicing the question. “How much Sherlock scared her? Seems to me there’d be a lot of other things you could talk about.”

“We do talk about other things,” James replies, and the words seem to come out so easily that Sherlock starts wishing he’d asked those questions after all. “But she always comes back to that. And I’m not stupid. I know what it means that you’re always so quiet when we go there or come back. I know what you thought I’d ask today.”

They’re entering London now and Sherlock has to pay a little more attention to his driving. Or at least, he tells himself that’s the reason why a few moments pass before he asks, “So… you don’t want to spend some time with her this summer, then?”

“When?” James asks, nonplussed. “Between visiting with your mother and the art seminar and the riding clinic, I’ll be going back to school before I even know it.”

Good thing Sherlock just stopped at a red light or he might have slammed on the brakes. Foregoing the rear view mirror, he turns to stare at James.

The art seminar and riding clinic, Sherlock knows about. The first is offered by James’ school during the summer vacation, three times a week for five weeks, and James is perhaps less interested in the seminar itself than by the fact that Laure will be attending. The clinic is something he asked about as warily as he asked about the competition; no doubt in his mind riding is forever associated with his father, and the subject, even now, remains a touchy one, even when his passion for riding has reignited.

But visiting Sherlock’s mother..?

“She called you too, huh?” John asks, back to being amused.

“It’s a conspiracy,” Sherlock mutters, and both John and James laugh.

*

A week passes. The last week of James’ school year. Seven days of Sherlock vainly trying to find a way out of staying at his mother’s for a full two weeks. Two cases, both solid sevens, that keep Sherlock and John busy. 

On Sunday morning, James is practically bouncing off the walls in his excitement. His first riding competition since Moriarty died. His mother will be there, as well as Laure. Mycroft didn’t make any promises, but he said he might drop by.

Sherlock would give just about anything for an excuse not to have to go. And at the same time, he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Judging from the look John gives him when it’s time to leave as well as the small squeeze of his fingers over Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock is all too transparent. Good thing James is too excited to notice.

As the competitors go one after the other, the waiting seems endless. The observation room is overcrowded with parents and guests, and Sherlock passes time with a string of muttered deductions meant to amuse John. He’s very careful not to look toward his left; just beyond arm’s reach, James stands with Laure and Angela, having introduced them to each other, and Sherlock doesn’t want to know what they’re talking about.

“You realize you look like you’re sulking, right?” John murmurs when Sherlock pauses to scrutinize a new subject.

“James knows I’m not,” Sherlock replies just as quietly. “I don’t care what anyone else might think.”

“Does he, really?” John asks. “Or do you hope he does? He doesn't look very happy right now.”

Sherlock instantly turns to James, and finds him staring at him with eyes that seem a little too wide in a face that seems a little too pale. Next to him, both Angela and Laure are silent, looking at him with the same worry.

“Something’s wrong,” Sherlock breathes, and takes one step toward James.

Immediately, James’ eyes focus elsewhere and widen just a little bit more, an invitation to follow his gaze. Sherlock turns and does just that. He sucks in a breath when he finds what's upsetting James. At the back of the room stands the shadow of Sebastian Moran.


	17. Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That cliffie was just too mean. Here you go :P

It’s not Moran.

It can _not_ be Moran.

Moran is dead. Sherlock can all but feel the reverberation of his neck snapping between his hands. He almost gags at the memory of the putrefaction smell that filled the warehouse just a few months ago.

Moran is dead.

But the man at the back of the room, the man who shakes hands as he approaches one group of people after the other, the man who put that look in James’ eyes… that man could be Moran’s twin.

 _It’s never twins_ , a little voice that sounds like Mycroft says inside Sherlock’s mind, and yet…

Same height. Same chestnut hair with just a few silver threads. Same dark eyes. Same oval features. He’s a little heavier, maybe, his shoulders a little narrower, but the differences are minimal.

One raspy breath shatters Sherlock’s focus, drawing him out of his observation to bring his eyes back to James. Angela is saying something to him, but James doesn’t seem to hear her – and Sherlock couldn’t care less what she’s saying. He does care however that her hand rises toward James’ shoulder. He bats it away before she can touch him and, ignoring her look of outrage, he steps to the side, right in front of James, blocking his line of sight. James blinks twice and his gaze travels up until it meets Sherlock’s.

“You look flushed,” Sherlock says, which is utter nonsense as James has rarely been so pale. “Nerves getting to you? Let’s get a bit of fresh air.”

James seems to understand this only means _let’s get out of here_ and he nods jerkily. Turning the most innocuous smile he can fake toward Laure and Angela, Sherlock assures them they won’t be long – and hopes they understand they’re not welcome to come along. To John, Sherlock offers a much grimmer smile even as he flicks his eyes back to that man who can’t possibly be Moran.

“That man,” he says, trying to sound aloof. “Would you get his name? I think he was a client but I can’t quite recall.”

John frowns at the man, though he nods to show he heard Sherlock. And it’s quite enough of a delay already. Sherlock briefly looks around, maps a way out that won’t take them anywhere close to that man, and indicates the way to James.

“Come on.”

In this crowd, it’d be easier to guide James out by holding on to his arm or shoulder, but Sherlock doesn’t dare initiate contact now, not when he suspects it’s taking everything James has in him not to have a complete meltdown at this very second. So he makes sure to keep his body between James and whoever that man is, and together they find a path to the emergency exit. The heavy door swings open under Sherlock’s hand. He holds it, allowing James to go first, and makes sure it closes behind them. James takes three shaky steps down the staircase, his hand clutching the safety rail. When he sits, it’s so abruptly that Sherlock suspects he might not have had a choice in sitting at all. Steeling himself, Sherlock sits on the same step.

“It’s not him,” he says in his most detached voice. “You know it as well as I do. You watched him die. As I recall your exact words were ‘I can see clearly he’s dead. The angle of his neck makes it rather obvious.’ You saw his decomposed body months after that. Moran is dead and you know it.”

James’ breathing, so quick and shallow for the past few minutes, catches in his throat. Hyperventilating? Not quite yet? Trying to control himself? Sherlock can’t tell. He’s too close – both figuratively and metaphorically.

“Breathe,” he says, much more quietly. “Please just try to breathe. Nice and slow.”

Something that sounds like a hiccup is followed by something that could equally be a sob or an aborted laugh. Sherlock clenches his hands into fists on his lap and watches as James closes his eyes and presses his face to his knees, his entire body shaking. If Sherlock ever felt as useless before as he does now, he can’t recall when it was.

“He’s dead,” he says again in the same quiet tone. “He died nine months ago in a dirty warehouse and was buried in a nameless plot. Twice. He died much too quickly and much too painlessly, I’ll grant you that, but it doesn’t make him any less dead. And you, you’re alive. You’re here. You have a family. You have a home. You have a mother. You have a girlfriend. You have your life in front of you and it’s going to be a good one, James.”

Another hiccup, and without raising his head, James manages to say, “Not my girlfriend. We’re just. Just friends. We agreed it’s. We don’t need. It’s just. A word.”

He wants to talk about Laure? Fine. They can do that. If that’s what it takes to get his mind back to the here and now…

“Just friends, right,” Sherlock says, and manages to inject a bit of teasing in his words. “She’s in there, wearing a dress that costs more than my custom-made suit, heels, make-up, and she’s had her hair done yesterday, all that to support her _friend_ in his riding competition.”

This time it’s definitely a breathless laugh that shakes James’ body.

“Not just friends,” he concedes. “Best friends.”

“Hmm I don’t recall John making that much of an effort for me when we were only friends.”

“You. You did. You dressed up for him.”

He doesn’t finish that thought, and somehow Sherlock is grateful for the reprieve. He doesn’t particularly want to think back on John’s wedding.

A deep, shaky breath, and James raises his head and opens his eyes. He still seems much too pale, and there’s a light sheen of perspiration at his temples, but his breathing seems back to normal.

“Better?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“You saw him too, didn’t you?” James asks rather than answering, staring ahead of him at the empty stairwell. “I mean, I know it’s not Sebastian, but he looks like him, right?”

There’s a pleading note in that last word, as if James wonders if he can trust his own eyes.

“The resemblance is there,” Sherlock confirms. “But it’s not—”

“I know,” James cuts in, and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I _know_ it can’t be him. That’s the worst part. I know I’m being ridiculous but I still can’t help it.” His shoulders shake; this time it’s a dry sob. “Damn it.”

“You’re not being ridiculous,” Sherlock says. “We knew it’d take time. Some things trigger you, and I’m sorry, they’ll probably keep triggering you for a long time. If you ever want to talk to—”

“No. I told you I don’t want to.”

Sherlock nods, though James can’t see him. “Then we’ll have to keep taking things one day at a time. Did it help, talking about something else? About Laure?”

When James lowers his hands and murmurs, “Yes, it did,” the faintest of blushes colors his cheeks. The blush fades again and he sighs. “What is she going to think about all this? And Mum?”

It’s the first time Sherlock has heard him call Angela _that_. He knew the day would come, and yet he still doesn’t know what to think about it. He’s saved from having to reply when his phone chirps at him. John.

_Lord Alexander Moran. Minister in the government. He’s on the board of the riding association. He’s here to hand out the prizes to the winners._

_Moran – that was the name of that man, wasn’t it? How is James?_

With slightly shaky fingers, Sherlock types a quick, _It was. Better. SH_ before getting on the web. It doesn’t take him long to find basic information about Lord Moran. Less basic takes a little longer, but not that much.

“What are you doing?” James asks after a moment, his voice back to normal.

“Brother,” Sherlock replies. “That man is Sebastian’s older brother.”

He hands his phone to James and watches him read, following along in his head. 

Lord Moran, peer of the realm, Minister for Overseas Development. Forty nine. Oldest of three brothers. The two youngest ones served in the army. One was killed in action. The other disappeared after being court-martialed.

“Not Sebastian,” James murmurs, handing Sherlock his phone back. “But still a Moran.” He frowns, his eyes taking a faraway look. “Once Father said… I can’t remember exactly, but I think… he was talking to Sebastian and they were arguing about Alex. Maybe that was him. Do you think maybe he worked for my father?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says. “Does it matter?”

Sherlock never finds out whether it does. The security door opens behind them, and they both turn to see Angela standing there. She stares for a moment before tightening her shawl over her shoulders.

“They called your group, honey,” she says with a thin smile to James. “It’ll be your turn soon.”

It takes James four and a half seconds to reply, and then it’s just a quiet, “Oh. Right.” He doesn’t move quite yet, not even when Sherlock stands.

“If you don’t feel up to it,” Sherlock says, “you don’t have to. There’ll be other chances.”

He’s very close to making that decision for James, because he still looks very pale, but James shakes his head, grips the handrail and hoists himself up. 

“No, I’m fine,” he says, first a little too quietly to be entirely believable, then more forcefully. “I’m fine. I want to do it. I’m at the end of the group so I’ll have plenty of time to get ready. Are you coming down to watch?”

Sherlock nods. “I’ll get John and Laure and we’ll come down. Go, we’ll be right there.”

James flashes him a small smile, a second one to his mother, and he hurries down the staircase, the echo of his boots striking the steps rising up after him. Sherlock goes up to get back in the observation room, but Angela, her arms crossed, stands in his way in front of the door.

“I work with children,” she says quietly. “Some are physically disabled, others have mental handicaps, and others still have behavioral peculiarities. I hold two degrees in child psychology and I’ve published three articles in scholarly papers about the subject.” She takes a deep breath and her eyes harden as they narrow. “What just happened to my son?”

Sherlock could lie his way around this, but should he? James doesn’t want her to know, but it might be that she needs to. She knows how to work with children, yes, but if this had happened when she was alone with James, would she have understood what was happening? Would she have known at all how to react – or would she have made things worse?

“He has panic attacks,” he says slowly, and hopes that James will understand why he had to break his confidence. “It doesn’t happen very often and he rebounds fairly quickly. He didn’t want you to know about it but I suppose you ought to if you’re going to spend time with him.”

He can see all the questions in her eyes, can see her worry – her anger, too. She finally settles on, “What triggers them?”

This question, Sherlock won’t answer. It would be futile to try. Today it was someone who looks like Moran. Last time, a phrase in a movie that he’d heard Moran say. Who knows what it’ll be next time?

“I’ve told you before,” he says coolly. “His father was a psychopath. He killed people in front of James. He tried to mold James into being more like him. Anything can be a trigger. Anyone. At any time.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she accuses, and Sherlock snorts.

“Very astute of you. Now if you’ll let me through, James expects all of us on the grounds in a few moments. Or do you want to miss it?”

She steps aside and they go back in. They find John and Laure in the crowd, and take the main staircase to the waiting area on the grounds. Laure is worried, that much is clear. When she asks in a small voice, “Was it his asthma again?”, Sherlock needs a moment to remember this was the excuse James gave her before.

“He’s fine,” he assures her. “A bit nervous about the competition, I’m guessing.”

She accepts the words and looks out to the grounds where another competitor is going through the obstacle course. Angela, on the other hand, is staring at Sherlock, the anger burning brighter in her eyes. He stares back, his own annoyance flaring bright under her scrutiny and words he might come to regret rising to the tip of his tongue. They disappear when John’s hand settles at the back of his neck and squeezes gently. Angela’s eyes widen ever so slightly and she blinks, but already Sherlock is turning away, looking at John.

“All right?” John says simply, and the two words seem filled to the brim with a dozen other questions he knows better than to ask now.

Sherlock only nods. Later, he can answer those questions – when they’re home, and alone. For now, when John drops his hand from his neck, Sherlock slips his own hand against it and holds on tight.

It seems to take ages before it’s finally James’ turn. Sherlock has seen him ride a horse dozens of times by now, but he’s never been so nervous. What if it’s too soon after the attack? What if he has another one, or falls, or—

“He’ll be fine,” John whispers. “Look at him. He’s fine.”

Sherlock does look as James passes by them and nods in their direction, smiling. And yes, he seems perfectly at ease in the saddle, holding himself very straight yet with a relaxed tilt of his shoulders that betrays his confidence. ‘I can do this,’ his whole demeanor projects – and he does.

Or at least, he completes the course. He doesn’t do anywhere as well as he did during the try-outs, and finishes in next to last position. There are two more competitors after him, but needless to say he won’t take the win in his group, let alone overall. He’s abashed when he gets back to them, apologizing for the disappointing performance. Before any of the adults can reply, Laure is putting an end to that nonsense, praising him for going through the course even after his ‘asthma attack’. Sherlock has a feeling that, ‘best friends’ notwithstanding, James might have enjoyed the peck on the cheek she almost gives him before she remembers they’re not alone. It’s hard to tell which of them blushes the brightest.

While Angela is smiling, she appears rather troubled. She gives James a quick hug with a whispered, “I’m proud of you,” that makes Sherlock’s stomach churn unpleasantly. Once John and Sherlock assure him he did just fine, James relaxes a little further, but Sherlock has a feeling it’ll take a while before James gets over anything that happened today.

When Angela asks if she can accompany them home to ‘chat’, that feeling becomes a certainty.


	18. Parents

Sherlock volunteers to make tea, mostly so he won’t have to stay in the sitting room with Angela any longer than absolutely necessary. To have her back in 221B grates on his nerves in a way that few things or people do. She perched herself on the edge of the sofa, close to one end, while John claimed his armchair. Their shared silence seems to weigh on the room.

James went upstairs to change out of his riding clothes, and it seems to take him a rather long time. He’s still not back downstairs when Sherlock takes the tray to the sitting room. Only when tea is served does Angela ask, addressing John after clearing her throat, “So, do you live here, then?”

John raises an eyebrow at her and answers with a clipped, “I do, yes,” before taking a sip from his cup. Angela looks around – it’s the third time – and Sherlock tires of hearing the cogs creak in her mind as she refuses to come to a conclusion that’s more than obvious. How blind those who cannot bear to see can be…

“No, there isn’t a third bedroom,” he says dryly.

She raises the cup to her lips, but a second too late to conceal her tight-lipped disapproval.

“If you have something to say,” John says in an almost idle tone that doesn’t fool Sherlock for a moment, “I’d suggest you do it now before James joins us. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Something in the way her shoulders tighten does not bode well, and Sherlock abruptly remembers that she attends that little church next to the cemetery regularly. He’s not quite sure which denomination it is. It’s not like he had any reason to care all that much until now.

“Not my business,” she agrees in a tight voice, “except that my son lives with you and—”

“And he should come in here,” Sherlock interrupts her, “before anyone can start thinking he’s eavesdropping.”

The _again_ remains unvoiced.

James enters the room, his expression carefully neutral. It’s impossible to tell if he heard enough to realize that Angela is not thrilled he lives with two men who are in a relationship, but on the whole Sherlock doubts it. 

He comes to sit at the other end of the sofa, all but ensconcing himself in the corner. Silence falls back on the room, even heavier than it was earlier. Angela breaks it by setting her half-empty cup on the coffee table with a light clink of china. She then shifts even closer to the edge of the sofa so she can face James. Her hands clutched on her lap, she smiles. It’s not a nice smile at all; James is cringing before she opens her mouth.

“About what happened,” she starts, but already James is looking away from her to turn accusing eyes to Sherlock.

“You told her!”

“I told her you had a panic attack, yes,” Sherlock says calmly, hoping James will pick up that it’s all he said.

If he does, however, it’s not enough to placate him.

“I asked you not to.”

“James,” Angela tries to butt in with such a syrupy tone that James ignores with a light shake of his head, as though he were dismissing an irksome fly.

“She asked what was going on,” Sherlock says. “She’s hardly idiotic. Lying seemed counterproductive.” After a beat, he adds, “Besides, if you’re going to keep spending time with her, she should be forewarned in case it happens again.”

The fact that James doesn’t dispute anymore that it might happen again should be reassuring – denial doesn’t help anything – but somehow it saddens Sherlock a little. He doesn’t like to see James resigned, not about anything. It reminds him too much of his resignation when he was convinced his father was scheming to get him back and nothing would stop him.

“I did need to know, honey,” Angela says in that same quiet, sugary voice. “I am your mother, and—”

James interrupts her first with a hard look, then with cool words. Sherlock has never heard him speak to Angela with anything other than warmth and affection. If it’s jarring to him, he can only imagine what it must feel to her. Not that he cares, really. She’s bringing this on herself.

“You don’t have to talk to me like I’m five and about to have a nervous breakdown and a tantrum all at once.” After a pause and a barely audible sigh, he adds, “This is exactly why I didn’t want you to know. I don’t need you to feel bad for me. That doesn’t help anything. It only makes things worse.” 

A few seconds pass. Angela’s face slowly closes – and James looks down, guilt flickering in his eyes. Sherlock likes that even less than resignation and is about to intervene when Angela says in a more neutral tone, “All right. What would help then?” She glances at Sherlock, but her words are still for James. “What did he say to help you today?”

James’ silence is predictable; the way he brings his hand up to bite his thumb nail… not a good sign.

“Can you tell me what triggers it?” Angela asks, and while she obviously tries not to sound impatient, it doesn’t work all that well.

She’s only known James as a sweet, smart, talented boy so far. This side of him – this stubborn, unresponsive, darker side of him – can’t be a pleasant surprise.

“It happens when it happens,” James says, his eyes set on the carpet. Both his hands are back on his lap, gripping his knees. If they start shaking, Sherlock promises himself, this whole ‘interview’ is over.

“But today, for example,” she persists. “There must have been something that set it off. We were talking and suddenly you stopped. What happened?”

“I don’t know,” James all but whispers, then looks up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “May I be excused?”

John replies at the same time Sherlock does, their words echoing and strengthening each other.

“Yes you may.”

With a look of profound relief on his features, James fumbles to his feet. He tries to pass by Angela, however, and she doesn’t give up quite yet, catching one of his hands in both of hers.

“James, please. I just want… I _need_ to understand. I lost thirteen years of being your mother, of being able to protect you and help you. Won’t you please let me do that now?”

Sherlock stands and is about to demand she let go of him right this moment when James speaks.

“You can’t protect me from my past,” he says quietly. “If you really want to help me, then let it go. I’ll see you when we come back from visiting Sherlock’s mother, but only if we talk like we used to. Not like today.”

What he does next startles Sherlock enough that he sits back down a little abruptly: he hugs Angela. It’s a brief hug, not even long enough for her to hug him back, and too stiff to be all that comfortable or warm, but it’s a hug nonetheless. Can Angela realize how much of a gift this is?

Judging from the way she stares at James as he walks out of the room, then turns a glare to Sherlock, probably not.

“I wasn’t done talking to him,” she hisses. “Why did you tell him he could leave?”

“Because he was about two minutes away from having another panic attack,” John says dryly, drawing Angela’s ire toward him. “Or would you rather have witnessed it firsthand? Would it have satisfied your curiosity to know you can be the trigger?”

Her glaring intensifies, but she doesn’t answer John, and her next question is for Sherlock again.

“How often does he see a therapist?”

Sherlock already knows she’s not going to like his answer, but that’s one decision he made concerning James that he refuses to regret.

“He doesn’t want to talk to a professional,” he says coolly.

Angela’s eyes widen. Her hands clench into fists on her lap. She manages to control her voice, but Sherlock doesn’t think it’d take much for her to start shouting.

“He’s a child. What he wants in this instance matters less than what he needs, and it’s clear he needs support to get over whatever it is that’s upsetting him. If you’re going to call yourself his _parent_ , you should at least understand that.”

“What he needs,” Sherlock retorts, ignoring the ‘parent’ dig, “is to know that what he wants matters. And he does have support.”

She scoffs at that.

“You? What qualifications do you have to even think you can help him?”

A question Sherlock has asked himself many times, before understanding it might not be the most important thing. James wouldn’t talk to a stranger. He won’t even talk to Angela, and she’s hardly a stranger anymore, not when he refers to her as ‘mum’. But he does talk to Sherlock. He trusts him, and did so from the start – maybe because Sherlock deduced enough about what happened to him not to have to ask the most basic questions. Once that first obstacle was removed, once he saw that Sherlock wasn’t using what he knew as a reason to express pity or horror, the occasional sharing of incidents became possible.

On the other hand, Angela failed her first test, today, although no one, not even James, knew she was taking it until she gave the wrong answers.

“My only qualification is that he chose me,” Sherlock says as calmly as he can when really he wants to throw her out of his flat. “I didn’t make demands. I didn’t ask questions. I let him decide what to tell me and when.”

“And how is that working out,” Angela asks almost savagely, “if he still has panic attacks for no reason?”

Is that her attempt to get Sherlock to say what triggered the attack today? She’ll have to do better than that.

“Ten months ago,” he replies with a growing edge to his words, “he would have walked around the table when he left the room rather than get within reach. He definitely wouldn’t have hugged you. So you tell me. Does it sound like it’s working?”

She doesn’t reply. Gathering the purse and shawl she placed behind her on the sofa, she stands.

“How long will you be at your mother’s?” she asks brusquely.

“Two weeks.”

She nods once. “If I don’t hear from him by then, I’ll do what I have to do to see him.”

As far as warnings – or threats – go, this one is anything but subtle. She doesn’t wait for an answer before walking out without another word. She pauses on the landing, looking up toward James’ room, but finally leaves without trying to call out to him or go upstairs.

John lets out a long, drawn out sigh. 

“Christ. This is not going to end well, is it?”

Sherlock wishes he wasn’t thinking the same thing.

*

Half an hour after Angela has left, John goes out. He just realized they were out of chamomile, and it might be best to have some on hand tonight. Also, neither of them feels like cooking, so he’ll stop by Angelo’s on his way home for some comfort food.

Sherlock debates giving James a little more time on his own, but in the end his need to check on him is too strong to delay any longer. He climbs the few steps without trying to be quiet, announcing his arrival, and when he knocks on the only half-closed door, the answer is immediate.

“Come in.”

Sitting cross-legged on his bed, his laptop within reach but closed, James watches Sherlock walk in with tired eyes.

“Was she very angry with me?” he asks at once.

Leaning his shoulder to the doorjamb, Sherlock shakes his head.

“She’s worried about you. I’m the one she’s angry with.”

James frowns at that.

“Why would she be? You told her what she wanted to know.”

The rebuke is still there; Sherlock doubts it’ll disappear anytime soon. Did he make a mistake? Did he damage their relationship in a permanent way? The thought makes his stomach churn.

“I told her the very barest she needed to know,” he points out. “She’s upset I won’t tell her anything more.” After a brief hesitation, he adds, “And just as upset I haven’t taken you to talk to a therapist.”

James’ head jerks up, and Sherlock knows, without needing to ask, that he hasn’t changed his mind about that.

“I suspect she’ll bring it up again,” he says in a quiet, neutral voice.

Nodding, James looks away.

“She will,” he replies tonelessly, then sighs. “Everything was going so well. Why did _he_ have to be there?”

There’s fire in those last words. Anger. Maybe even hate. Things that Sherlock is used to hearing in James’ voice when he talks about Sebastian.

“James,” he starts carefully, “you know he’s not—”

James interrupts with a dismissive gesture. 

“I know. I _know_. He’s not Sebastian. But that doesn’t mean he’s much better than him. The more I think about it, the more I think he worked for Father. Or… dealt with him in some way. These were never good people.”

A tiny edge of pleading asks Sherlock to agree with him – to trust him, the way he trusts Sherlock.

“We’re about to spent two very long weeks in Sussex,” he says in guise of answer. “Maybe we can do a little investigating about Lord Moran while we’re there.”

James frowns, tilting his head in confusion.

“Investigate while we’re in Sussex when he’ll be in London? Wouldn’t it be easier if we do it from here?”

“Since when do you need things to be easy?” Sherlock asks with a half grin, and could sigh in relief when James smiles back.


	19. Tangled Webs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be away for a little while, so there won't be another update until ~mid march. Fair warning.

Early morning light is seeping into the room through the badly closed curtains, throwing long shadows everywhere. Soon, it’ll be time to get up and get ready to join Mummy for the formal breakfast she insisted they will share every morning for their entire stay here.

Soon, but not quite yet.

For now, Sherlock remains still under John’s hands and lips, allowing him to trace the long lines etched on his back. Other than the occasional residual nightmare-slash-memory, Sherlock barely thinks about that ordeal anymore, having managed to close the door on it for the most part. Talking about it helped, like John said at the time. Or at least, it helped Sherlock. As for John…

John continues to brush his fingertips, his lips and tongue against the scars, sometimes even his teeth, as though by touching them often enough he might erase them completely—the physical scars along with the experiences that created them, Sherlock is sure.

“I’m not hurting you, am I?” he eventually murmurs, his mouth barely rising from Sherlock’s skin.

He always asks at some point, despite knowing that the answer is always the same, and despite his own professional knowledge answering the question for him. Sherlock makes a low, negative sound, too relaxed to manage even a simple, unneeded ‘no.’

“We could try the same cream James uses,” John continues, and _that_ is new. “It might minimize them, at least a little.”

Sherlock frowns into his pillow. He’s never complained about the scars. They’re there, they’re part of him, now, and that’s all there is to it. He can’t see them, and doesn’t think much about them. But John can see them. Touch them. Do they really bother him that much?

When Sherlock voices the question, John takes exactly twenty nine seconds to reply. It seems like a lot longer than that, and Sherlock feels very exposed suddenly—and it has nothing to do with the fact that he is nude.

“Yes and no,” John sighs in the end, and rests his cheek on Sherlock’s back, his hands coming up to find Sherlock’s and entwine their fingers together. “It’s not the way they look, it’s what they mean.”

“The pain is barely even a memory at all,” Sherlock offers quietly. “Certainly not enough for you to be concerned about it.”

A dry, almost soundless chuckle rocks John’s body.

“Right. I shouldn’t be concerned that the man I love—”

He doesn’t finish. It’s been a long time since he uttered the word ‘torture’ in relation to Sherlock’s back.

“I just wish,” he starts again, “that this hadn’t happened to you. Any of it.”

With a groan of regret, Sherlock starts pushing himself to his side, pausing to give John time to move off him, then rolling onto his back. John lies on top of him again, this time propping his chin on his hands on Sherlock’s chest.

“If I hadn’t gone,” Sherlock says slowly, holding his gaze, “if I hadn’t made this very deliberate choice, knowing full well what the risks were, I wouldn’t have you, and I wouldn’t have James. If I had to go through that again to keep—”

He can’t finish, not with John suddenly surging forward, both his hands framing Sherlock’s face before he mashes their mouths together. It’s a kiss in only the broadest sense of the word. Mostly, it’s a request for Sherlock not to even think something like this, let alone say it. When John pulls back, his fingers still tight and shaking against Sherlock’s cheeks, his eyes are blazing.

“If you ever _think_ about leaving me behind again, I swear—”

This time it’s Sherlock who interrupts that thought by pushing into John’s hands until he can kiss him just as fiercely as he’s just been kissed. He doesn’t need to hear it, both because he knows John would hunt him down with the fury of a thousand men, and because he’s never going away again. Not for anything.

The frantic kiss turns into something else, something more languid—and much more heated. Sherlock wraps an arm around John, pushes with one hip, and their positions are soon reversed, John on his back, looking up at Sherlock above him. The twitch of a rising eyebrow asks a question that doesn’t really matter in the end. It’s been months since their hesitant first time, and who does what to whom is not as relevant as the fact that they do it together.

Reaching under the pillow he’s resting on, John finds the tube of lubricant and offers it to Sherlock along with a wolfish grin.

“James is practically on the other side of the house,” he says very low, a quiet growl in his words. “And your mother and her nurse aren’t even on this floor.”

Sherlock grins back just as widely when he finishes John’s thought. “Which means that for a change, we don’t need to be quiet.”

Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea to come to Sussex after all.

*

After an overly drawn-out breakfast – surely Sherlock would have died of boredom at the table if not for the way John’s foot keeps finding his own under the cover of the tablecloth – Mummy announces her intention to enjoy the nice weather to go for a walk. The look she gives all of them is less an invitation than it is a demand. 

Sherlock is used to ignoring that look, but not so for John and James. They offer to accompany her with enough synchronicity that Sherlock might be amused if it didn’t mean they’ll both be leaving the house for a while. As for him, as he informs Mummy, he has other plans.

“I have some work to do while we’re here. Would you rather I use the library or the office?”

He knows better than to ask permission to use either; she’d only refuse. By making it a fait accompli that he’ll use one of them and her only choice is to decide which, he hopes to avoid a long argument. But he certainly didn’t think she wouldn’t so much as blink.

“If it’s work,” she says dryly, “then I suppose the office would be appropriate.”

And that’s all. No argument whatsoever, although she does seem a little haughty when she pushes herself to her feet and looks down at him.

“I hope you’ll join us for a walk tomorrow,” she says, and Sherlock hears an order in the words.

He doesn’t reply, not to her, not to John’s eyeroll when he offers Mummy his arm, not to James’ slight frown as he follows them out. But it’s useless to claim that he’ll stay home tomorrow, not when it’s three of them against him. Judging from the little smirk stretching the lips of the nurse-maid-spy when she starts unloading the table, it’s obvious to everyone he lost this round.

*

They’re gone for an hour, which is definitely longer than Sherlock expected Mummy would be able to stand.

(Later, John will tell him they took a long break and sat on the bench at the end of the driveway, with Mummy reminiscing about Sherlock’s antics as a child, and Sherlock will be properly horrified.)

For now, however, he’s not complaining as an hour gives him more than enough time to prepare everything. There’s a painting on the wall opposite the desk, a careful depiction of the very house he’s in. He removes it from its hook and stores it against the opposite wall, half hidden behind the liquor cabinet. He brought what he needed from London: an oversized sheet of paper that covers most of the newly cleared wall, his laptop, a printer, reams of paper, string, glue dots, markers of various color.

In 221B, he’d simply pin everything to the wall, but it seems more prudent not to leave damage on the walls Mummy might complain about.

The only thing he prints while waiting for James’ return is a portrait of Alexander Moran. It’s a risk, he thinks as he holds it in his hand, but a necessary one. They’re going to be actively investigating the man. They’ll be talking about him. His portrait might help James cling to the idea that, for all that he resembles Sebastian, he’s not him.

That portrait, Sherlock tacks to the center of the blank sheet. Everything they look for, everything they might discover will center around this man. By the time they leave Sussex, they might not have found out much about him, in which case the sheet will still be mostly blank. But if James’ suspicions are founded, if Alexander Moran is the ‘Alex’ James heard his father talking about…

It was almost a year ago that Sherlock prided himself on having dismantled the entirety of Jim Moriarty’s network. If the incident with Philip Moriarty proved anything, it was that Sherlock didn’t fully finish the task he’d given himself. The banker who had access to Moriarty’s accounts was one such loose thread. It’d be foolish to believe he was the only one.

When they finally return from their little walk, Mummy only peers inside the office for a second or two before pulling away with a look of distaste on her features. Sherlock hears her announce she’s going to take a short nap, but he’s more interested in James’ reaction when he enters the room. For the briefest of instants, his eyes widen as he looks at the wall, at the lone portrait there. When they narrow again, it’s with equal parts determination and distaste.

“So, what’s the game plan?” John asks, coming in as well. His arms are crossed over his chest, his expression grim. He didn’t seem particularly thrilled when Sherlock told him about this attempt to exorcize James’ demons, but he grudgingly admitted it might do James some good.

“I set tails on him before we left London,” Sherlock says, addressing both of them. “That will give us some information about his day to day routine, and who he might be meeting. The rest, we’ll have to find out on the internet.”

“The internet?” James replies, sounding disappointed. “I’ve already looked. I didn’t find much at all.”

Sherlock suspected as much, though he doesn’t respond to this confirmation.

“Yes, well, you don’t have access to MI5 databases, do you?”

John lets out a bark of laughter while James only stares at Sherlock with something that might be awe… or maybe worry.

“You do?” he whispers. “How?” After a beat he adds, “Mycroft?”

Sherlock merely nods. He doesn’t explain that his access won’t exactly be with Mycroft’s foreknowledge or approval, or that the fact that they are _here_ is very much necessary to his plan. Secure internet access was given to the house since Mummy’s new nurse took her post. Sherlock noticed last time they were here, but he didn’t think much of it at the time. In retrospect, he realized that she must be login into the system remotely, either to work on old files or to offer occasional help to her colleagues; with the number of naps Mummy appears to take, it must leave the nurse with a lot of downtime.

They won’t be using her credentials to log in, but they’ll be on the same secure network, with the same approved IP number… Sherlock gives them four days before Mycroft realizes something is going on. Less if the nurse ignores Sherlock’s orders and comes into the room to see what they’re up to. Sherlock locks it every time they stop, but he doubts a lock would stop her very long.

In the end, Mycroft shows up after six days. By then, the blank sheet is not so blank anymore. Numerous portraits have joined Lord Moran’s, as well as handwritten and printed notes, and threads join everything in a tangled web that feels both very complicated and intensely satisfying.

James was the one to print up a picture of his father – a shot taken after his sham of a trial, one of the last pictures ever taken of him – and put it up in a corner of the sheet. There’s no direct thread between him and Lord Moran, not yet, but there are multiple paths between them, with two or three degrees of separation. Then again, if they put Sebastian Moran on there, the link would be almost direct, but Sherlock doubts James is quite ready to look at the younger Moran’s face for four or five hours a day.

It’s not all James does, of course. There are more walks with Mummy, riding outings with the neighbor’s kid, occasional visits to the small town with Sherlock and John, and not so discreet chatting with Laure, either through messages or on the phone. He seems to be enjoying his vacation. He especially has a lot of fun visiting the McAllister property on Caroline’s invitation, and getting a first-hand lesson in beekeeping. He hasn’t mentioned his mother once.

John seems to be enjoying his vacation as well. He leaves the ‘network building’, as he calls it, to Sherlock and James, but he’s always in the room when they’re working, ostensibly reading one of the books he borrowed from the library but paying enough attention to offer his input, now and then. He’s more patient with Mummy than Sherlock has any hope of ever being, and it’s enough to soften her rougher edges whenever she thinks Sherlock ought to give her more of his time. Sherlock thanks him quite thoroughly every night for that reprieve.

All in all, it’s not anywhere as bad as Sherlock feared when he first agreed to spend some time here. Or at least, it’s not as bad until Mycroft shows up unannounced.

He stands on the threshold of the office, looking in at their work displayed on the wall, and rolls his eyes in exasperation even as he sighs.

“So this is what you’ve been up to,” he says as he walks in.

James, who was gluing another thread between two portraits, looks at him, somewhat disconcerted.

“Didn’t you know?” he asks, and glances at Sherlock.

“No, I didn’t,” Mycroft says with another, even more pointed sigh. “If I’d known you were investigating Lord Moran, I’d have told you it’s MI6 you need access to, not merely MI5.”

The smile that touches his lips may be small, but it still reflect enough self-satisfaction that Sherlock wants to gag. He’s not going to ask. He absolutely refuses to.

Besides, James does it for him.

“What does MI6 know, then?”

Mycroft tries to play coy, pretends he misspoke, claims he couldn’t possibly share what he knows as it’s highly classified.

“But,” he says after all his protesting, “if, hypothetically, a minister and peer of the realm was suspected of being a spy for North Korea, I would definitely be privy to that information.”

A beat passes in complete silence, finally broken by the snick of a plastic cap being removed from a marker. In the last empty corner, far below the picture of his father, James writes ‘NK’ and encloses the letters in a rough circle. Then he turns to Sherlock.

“Did you see anything that had to do with North Korea? Didn’t that man—” He points at one of the pictures, a reporter in his fifties. “—go on assignment there?”

They get back into it. After a few minutes, Mycroft tires of watching them struggle. He doesn’t give Sherlock his access credentials, doesn’t even enter them himself in the laptop, but he types on his mobile for a moment before offering it to James.

“You have one hour,” he says. “After that, you’re losing all access to things you have no business accessing.”

One hour is more than enough.

*

Much later that night, when James and Mummy are both in bed, Mycroft, John and Sherlock are in the office again, sharing a drink. With a glass of scotch in hand, Mycroft observes the web around Lord Moran. His expression is wistful.

“I wish we could have taken care of this a long time ago,” he says quietly. “We certainly have enough evidence. But as a whole, he’s still more useful to us as a spy than as a dead man. At least we know what he’s up to.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, and neither does John—although John’s quiet snort, half buried in his glass, does sound like a rather stern rebuttal of Mycroft’s words.

“I never made the connection before,” Mycroft goes on, ignoring John. “’Moran’ isn’t a particularly rare name after all. But given James’ fervor in connecting the dots…”

He turns a questioning look to Sherlock rather than finishing that thought aloud. Sherlock nods.

“I guess that explains it,” Mycroft says with a little hum, and turns back to the wall, his gaze now directed to the corner where Moriarty smirks at the room. “Dead four years now, and still we continue to add to his file. Personally, I could do without any more surprises from that family.”

He turns to Sherlock, and takes a small sip before continuing.

“That’s the other reason I’m here. Angela Peters has hired someone to serve as interim headmaster for her school while she ‘deals with family issues,’ according to the letter she sent to her staff and the parents of her students. She’s been looking for a place to rent in London. Apparently her criteria are long term, two bedrooms, and in the vicinity of Baker Street. I thought you might want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, i didn't mean to leave it hanging like this. I blame Mycroft.


	20. Silences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On one hand, it's shorter than my usual chapters and i'm not all that happy with it.  
> On the other, it's an update and it does the job it was supposed to do. Yay?
> 
> I can't apologize enough for the delay. My muse has been MIA, and the lack of time doesn't help. I have no intention to leave this unfinished, but i can't make promises as to when i'll update next.
> 
> (You have my apologies as well for being dreadfully behind on answering to comments. I'll try to do better.)

Sherlock doesn’t get much sleep that night, worry eating at his insides in a way that’s both unfamiliar and all too recognizable. He never used to worry much; he didn’t see the point of it. And then he met John, and things started to change. He had something to lose, now. Worry entered his life.

He waged his own secret war against Moriarty’s empire over the worry that John – and others – might be harmed because of him. He continued fighting long after his body and mind were ready to give up over the worry that he’d never get the chance to tell John how he felt. And now… now he worries about losing James, little by little, and never mind James’ assurances that it won’t happen.

It’s even worse because Sherlock knows that he’d only need to say the word and Angela would never interfere in their lives again. Mycroft would make sure of it. He made the offer – again – after telling them about her search for a flat. Nothing strictly illegal, just the use of his enormous resources. The only problem is that James vetoed the idea the first time around, and he’s unlikely to have changed his mind.

Meals often are quiet times in this house, but today the silence over breakfast seems even heavier than usual. Until Mummy shatters it, that is.

“I know why you’re here,” she suddenly says, and the glare she directs at Mycroft makes it clear whom she’s talking to. “I’m not crazy and you’re not carting me off to some clinic. I won’t allow it.”

Renewed silence answers her words, now without so much as the clinking of cutlery on porcelain to break it.

“I would never—” Mycroft starts, his voice unusually high and choked up, but Mummy interrupts him at once with a bark of laughter that almost sounds sinister.

“Don’t lie, Edmund. I can never bear it when you lie.”

Across from Sherlock, James is as still as a statue. He barely even seems to breathe, his eyes cast down at his plate. It’s because of him that Sherlock forces himself to say, “It’s Mycroft, Mummy. Not Father. And he’s here because of some business he and I have in London, nothing more.”

Mummy turns to Sherlock. Her mouth opens, the anger of her retort already painted on her lips like too-bright lipstick. She doesn’t say a word, however, and frowns in confusion, first at Sherlock, then at Mycroft.

“Of course,” she says, her words shaking, after a few long seconds. “Of course.”

The nurse-spy-overpriced-aide steps forward and murmurs into Mummy’s ear. Whatever she says, Mummy nods jerkily and stands with her help.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she says, much more calmly. “I’m not feeling up to a walk this morning. I will rest for a little while.”

Once she has left, the silence seems even worse, if that was possible. It doesn’t get any better when James clears his throat and says, “That business in London… It’s about Angela, isn’t it? About her looking for a flat?”

When Sherlock’s mind, rushing through a hundred questions, theories and deductions, can’t come up with an answer, it’s John who asks, “How do you know about that?”

A pink shadow touches James’ cheeks and he pushes what’s left of his breakfast around his plate.

“She told him,” Sherlock says, because that much at least is obvious. “Either through text or phone call.”

And James didn’t tell them…

A hint of reproach must pierce in his voice because James winces.

“She texted me late last night,” he says, a little defensive. “I was going to tell you today.” After a brief pause, he adds, “It was sort of my idea.”

Sherlock stares at him. He tries to understand what this means, but worry, once again, obliterates everything.

Going to Wales was the first step. Meeting her, the second. Going back regularly. Inviting her to the riding competition. Now this – asking her to stay in London – one more step.

“I know what you’re thinking,” James says hurriedly. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t mean… I didn’t think she’d _move_ to London, we were just talking about how I’m so very busy this summer and I said it’s a pity London is so far from Wales and—”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock interrupts quietly.

He knows that light in James’ eyes, knows that hitch in his voice when his words start running together. No reason to let him work himself into a panic.

“Of course it’s fine,” John adds, a rough edge to his words. “She’s free to live where she wants. And if she’s closer, you can still see her over the summer.”

As James breathing slowly calms down, he looks for a long time at Sherlock, then at John, finally turning his gaze to Mycroft.

“You haven’t said anything,” he says, his voice rasping.

With slow, deliberate movements, Mycroft picks up the napkin from his lap and dabs at his lips; giving himself a moment, Sherlock is sure. He’s barely touched his food.

“It’s not up to me to say anything,” he finally says, almost detached.

“But that’s why you’re here,” James persists. “Isn’t it?”

It’s another long moment before Mycroft answers. The silence sets Sherlock’s teeth on edge and he’d like to say something – if he could only figure out what. Maybe Mycroft has the same problem, because he goes on a tangent – or does he?

“This property will be yours, someday. The grounds, the house, everything in it.”

James blinks. He seems as taken aback as Sherlock feels.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It has to do with the fact that you belong to this family,” Mycroft continues on the same bland tone of voice. “And in case you haven’t realized as much yet, there is only one thing I protect with more ardor than my family, and it’s England.”

With that, he stands, buttoning his suit jacket as he finishes.

“I have followed Sherlock’s wishes and yours until now, but let me be clear. If Angela Peters tries to remove you from this family, there is very little I wouldn’t do to stop her. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed back in London. Good day.”

His eyes meet Sherlock’s as he turns away from the table, and as brief as the look may be, Sherlock sees something there – something Mycroft didn’t express in words, but that lay underneath this whole declaration.

He let James be taken from them once. He won’t allow that to happen again.

Maybe there’s even something more in there: he can’t do a thing about gradually losing one member of their family, but he can do a lot about not losing this one.

And Mycroft was always the one to warn against sentiment…

For all that Sherlock appreciates the thought, he can’t help but wonder – always the same question coming back to the front of his mind. What if James decides he wants to live with Angela? What would Mycroft do, then?

“He doesn’t mean…” James swallows so hard his throat clicks audibly. “What does he mean exactly?”

He’s clutching the tablecloth with both hands, hard enough that his glass is in danger of toppling over. It’s all Sherlock can do not to go out after Mycroft, drag him back in, and get him to reassure James.

“I’m sure he means the same thing he suggested back in our first war council,” John offers soothingly. “To establish in front of a court the link that existed between her and your father. Cast suspicions on her about the insurance money. Make it so no judge would trust her with a child.”

“And make her lose the school in the process,” James says, sounding both sad and bitter. “I just wanted to know her. Not destroy everything she’s built.”

“It’s not going to happen,” Sherlock manages to utter. “It won’t get that far.”

It’s not a lie, per se. It’s what he wants to believe – and what he wants James to believe, too. But judging from the look James casts toward him, followed by a quiet, “May I be excused?”, James is far from convinced.

And truth be told, so is Sherlock.

He startles when John’s hand cups the back of his neck, but soon presses back into the touch, grateful for it.

“Not the best morning we’ve had,” John says grimly. “Not the best night either for that matter. Did you get any sleep at all?”

Turning his head toward him, Sherlock notices for the first time the pronounced circles that darken John’s gaze, and it suddenly occurs to him that there were two of them in that bed trying in vain to find rest. Why does he keep forgetting that John is as involved in all this as Sherlock himself is? Partners; that’s what they’ve been for months. Isn’t it time Sherlock realizes they are partners for all that concerns James, too?

“About as much as you did, I think. Maybe it’s time—”

“To go back to London?” John finishes his thought. “Yes, that might be best. Your mother won’t be pleased. James might not be either. He’s been enjoying his time here, I think.”

Sherlock nods. He noticed the same thing. James likes it here, for some unfathomable reason. Even the fact that he’s so far from Laure – they’re still best friends and nothing more, supposedly, but by Sherlock’s count they don’t go more than a couple hours without exchanging a few texts – hasn’t tarnished his enjoyment.

But when Sherlock goes up to his room to tell him they’ll leave today, he finds him folding his clothes, as though he already knew he’d need to pack.

“Can we leave this afternoon?” is his only request. “So I can have one last ride with Andrew. And say goodbye to Grand-mère properly.”

Sherlock has no objection to that. He starts to leave, but turns back to the room when James offers a quiet, “Dad?”

It’s been a little while since James called him that. A simple word shouldn’t feel so nice to hear, it shouldn’t be able to warm Sherlock from the inside out, to soothe his worries so easily… and yet.

“I meant what I said before,” James continues, still as quietly. “I didn’t think she’d move to London. I never wanted to make things even more complicated.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies with something that just might manage to look like a smile. “I do know that. But the question is, does Angela?”

James has no reply for him, not that Sherlock expected him to. That’s why they’re going back to London, after all, isn’t it? To talk to Angela again. To make sure – again – that she understands everyone will lose if she starts this fight in earnest. But what arguments can they use now that they haven’t given her already?


	21. Forced Smiles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for not updating for so long, and for failing to reply to comments in a timely manner. Please believe your patience as well as each and every comment is much appreciated.

“I’d like to invite her to have dinner with us.”

A second passes in silence before James adds, “Here, I mean.”

Sherlock looks at John on the other side of the kitchen table. James’ declaration caught them both by surprise. John’s chopsticks still hover in front of his mouth, though the piece of chicken he was about to eat dropped back in the takeout box. 

“So… may I?” James asks when neither of them replies.

Sherlock is about to give a very reluctant agreement—there’s no need to ask who ‘she’ is—but John beats him to it, in a rather unexpected manner.

“Sure,” he says with a too wide grin. “You don’t need permission to ask your friends over. As long as Laure’s mother knows where she is, that’s fine.”

For the briefest of instants, Sherlock wonders how John could possibly think James was talking about inviting Laure—and judging from James’ frown, he’s wondering the same thing. It doesn’t last. John isn’t that clueless, and they both know it.

“Not funny,” James mutters, rolling his eyes. “And if you don’t want me to invite Angela, just say so, no need to play games.”

“So, I shouldn’t try to be funny, duly noted,” John says dryly. “But honestly, I thought this was comedy hour. Because I’m not sure how you can believe Angela would want to have dinner with us.”

“But she doesn’t even _know_ you,” James protests. “That’s exactly why I think she should spend a bit of time here. She hasn’t talked with you two much at all, only when we first met her and she was too upset to think, and then she talked to Sherlock and he basically threatened her—”

When Sherlock sits up straighter and starts to object, James shakes his head.

“I know,” he says, sounding miserable. “I know it was necessary. But you didn’t exactly make a great impression on her. And then she came here after the riding competition and. Well. None of us was exactly at our best.”

Which is the understatement of the year, but Sherlock has no desire to push the issue right now. Just like he has no desire to explain to James that Angela seems to have another reason why she doesn’t care much for him, or John. Or more accurately, for him and John.

“I have to agree with John,” he says in as neutral a tone as he can muster. “I doubt she’d accept the invitation if it was offered to her.”

“And I think she will if I ask her,” James persists. “But only if you two agree to it first. I know you think you know everything about her, but there’s more to her than Mycroft’s files can tell you. If you three got to know each other better, maybe there wouldn’t be a need for more war councils. Or for her to _prepare for all eventualities_.”

From the way his inflection changes on these last few words, becoming colder suddenly, Sherlock guesses they’re a direct quote. Which means he has confronted Angela directly about... about what exactly? Moving to London? Finding someone to assume her position at the school while she’s here? Anything else he hasn’t told them about yet?

No, no, Sherlock can’t let himself go down that road. He can’t doubt James, can’t suspect him of hiding things from them. There’d be no better way for him to alienate James than to distrust him.

He meets John’s eyes again, and in his weary gaze he guesses the same hesitations he has himself. It’s nothing they can voice now.

“Yes, you have our permission to invite her,” Sherlock says. 

James nods, though he looks at John to check that he agrees, and only when John confirms it does James return to his dinner. Sherlock tries to take a few more bites of his rice, but he’s suddenly not that hungry anymore. He packs up his take-away and excuses himself to the sitting room under the pretext of checking his email for potential clients. They’ve been home for only a few hours, but he’s dying for a distraction. Compared to familial crises, solving crimes is child’s play.

During the entire ride home, he tried to figure out what the next step ought to be--and he’s sure that, behind their silences, John and James were examining the same problem. Is James’ suggestion the way to move forward from here? Sherlock seriously doubts it, but he can’t refuse James the chance to try.

He’s been lying on the sofa for a little while already, lost deep in his thoughts, when physical contact brings him back to the real world. John has picked up his feet and is sitting at the other end of the sofa, one hand remaining on Sherlock’s right ankle even after he repositions Sherlock’s feet on his lap.

When Sherlock briefly glances toward the kitchen, John murmurs, “In his room.” After a beat, he adds, “I think we should tell him about Angela.”

There’s no need to clarify what is it exactly that John would want to tell him.

“He’s going to find out eventually. And if he realizes we knew, he might hold it against us.”

“Blame us for his mother’s prejudices?” Sherlock says. “No. He wouldn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock takes a second to truly consider the question, but his answer doesn’t change. James is nothing if not rational.

“I’m sure. And if we try to tell him, he might think we’re trying to turn him against her. What proof do we have?”

Resting his head against the back of the sofa, John closes his eyes and sighs softly.

“This is not going to end well,” he murmurs. “It’s all going to blow up in our faces, and I for one have no idea what we can do to stop it from happening.”

Sherlock wishes he could reassure him, convince him somehow that everything will be fine, but deep down he agrees with John. From the very start, he knew this was a bad idea - but from the very start, he couldn’t see how to change the path they were on. He still can’t see the way out now, nor does he know where this path leads exactly, but he has a feeling James is the one who will be hurt before they get to the end of the road. All he can do is try to minimize the damage.

‘Try to’ being the operative verb.

*

Angela doesn’t merely agree to have dinner with them. She pushes things one step further. She invites them - through James, they don’t actually talk to her directly - to have dinner at her new place.

“If I went early,” James adds, all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, “I could help her cook for you. May I?”

Sherlock can’t think of a single reason to say no. And the very next afternoon, he feels all but helpless when, standing at the window, he watches James wave up at him from the street before getting into his mother’s car.

He never wanted to parent a child before James entered his life - never even imagined it. But if he had, he certainly wouldn’t have imagined this odd version of custodial visits.

“He’s gone, then?” John asks, very close behind him, just a moment before his hands settle on Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Gone,” Sherlock repeats tonelessly. “Temporarily, at least this time. But every time he climbs into her car, I’m going to wonder if today is the day she kidnaps him.”

John’s hands tighten almost painfully.

“You don’t really think—”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

The frustration in his voice is unmistakable. Sherlock doesn’t need to explain how much he hates not knowing. Gently, oh so gently, John pulls him back toward the sofa. He sits first, and draws Sherlock down onto his lap, one knee on each side of John’s thighs. His arms encircle Sherlock’s waist and pull him close. For the time of a blink, Sherlock starts to pull free. He is the furthest thing from an amorous mood at the moment, and it surprises him that John would try to initiate intimacy now. He soon understands, however. John is offering intimacy, yes; but he’s not offering sex. Sherlock allows himself to be held, and relaxes ever so slightly.

“Mycroft…”

When Sherlock tenses again at the word, John doesn’t finish that thought. They both know what Mycroft could do. They also both know that it would be the end of James’ relationship with his mother. The nuclear option, as it were. They might get there, but at what cost?

“Maybe,” Sherlock says. “If it comes to that. But you know I’d rather avoid it. Best case scenario, James would only blame Mycroft, but that’d still mean two adults he trusts out of his life at the same time.”

And Mycroft would lose the only nephew he’s ever going to have, and someone for whom he bent his own rules about not allowing sentiment to get in the way. He must realize that, and yet he’s still ready to make his move. Sherlock doesn’t know whether to call him brave or stupid – not that Sherlock would call him brave to his face.

“Worst case,” John finishes for him, “he’d blame us too. What a bloody mess.”

A mess indeed, and that’s even without considering whether Angela would keep fighting even after she loses all hopes of getting custody – and Sherlock strongly suspect she would. No, he doesn’t just suspect, he _knows_. If the situation was reversed, if she was the one with an ace in her sleeve and the means to take James away from him, he’d still keep fighting long after the game was lost. Because it’s not a game at all.

They remain like this a little longer, and a small part of Sherlock is soothed by John’s presence, by the knowledge that he’s not fighting this war on his own. He didn’t use to mind all that much being alone, but during the three years he spent destroying the last of Moriarty’s empire, not having John at his side was the most difficult part.

“All right,” John says, his voice suddenly firmer. “Up. Let’s go.”

Sherlock knows just how much strength John hides under his less than flattering jumpers, or, in the present case, a rather plain short-sleeved shirt in deference to the hot weather, but it’s still always a surprise to experience that strength firsthand, like when John picks him up as though he weighed nothing and sets him on his feet.

“Go where?” Sherlock asks. “We’re not due at that dinner for another five hours.”

And why James needs to spend five hours with Angela to help her cook dinner, Sherlock cannot fathom.

“Why don’t we try the morgue first?” John sounds like he’s making things up as he goes. “We haven’t been there in a while, maybe Molly has something interesting stored up for you. If not, we’ll hit Scotland Yard. At the very least I can convince Lestrade to let you have a go at whatever cold cases he has on hand.”

Sherlock is about to agree – an interesting specimen or cold case would help distract him and take his mind off a matter he doesn’t know how to solve, yes – but even as he follows John to the door, he realizes something. Something that might not have occurred to him even a year ago, but that he can’t ignore now.

“Something stored up for me or a cold case I can look at… but what about you? Unless I’m sorely mistaken, you’re as worried as I am and need as much distracting as I do.”

Already on the first step of the staircase, John looks back and shrugs one shoulder, his mouth twisting onto something that might be an attempt at a smile.

“True, but you’re his dad, I’m just—”

Sherlock doesn’t want to know how John would complete that sentence. He stops him the best way he knows how, with his mouth on John’s, his hands cupping John’s face and holding it in place.

“You’re not _just_ anything,” he says when he pulls back after a few seconds.

John’s smile, this time, seems a lot more genuine. And despite everything, Sherlock smiles back.

*

They get there five minutes early, and Sherlock is all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, impatient to get this over with. While John pays the cabbie, Sherlock looks up. Five-story building, private green spaces around it, balconies on all levels, underground parking, posh neighborhood… He has a feeling Moriarty’s ‘insurance’ payments were a big help in finding this place for Angela.

“Christ,” John breathes, standing next to Sherlock and looking up as well. “She’s going all out, isn’t she?”

Sherlock only answers with a noncommittal noise. He doesn’t need to step in Angela’s flat to know it’ll be larger, newer, more inviting than 221B. No doubt she’ll have furnished the larger of the two bedrooms for James, making sure it compares favorably to his room in Baker Street. And if that’s truly how she intends to win James over, then she really doesn’t know him yet.

Up they go to the top floor. The metallic walls of the lift reflect Sherlock’s image back at him, and John’s at his side. He can’t help but think there’s something missing there – someone. The same someone who soon opens the apartment door to them with a beaming smile.

“Are you hungry?” James asks before they’ve even had a chance to come in. “I hope you are! We’ve made pasta from scratch! And tomato sauce, too! Just wait til you try it.”

Something tightens inside Sherlock’s heart as he watches James move through the flat as though he already belongs there. That’s all Sherlock can see; the furnishings, the still-to-be-unpacked boxes against the wall, all of it is irrelevant right now, not even worth being committed to memory for later perusal.

Fingers suddenly close around his and squeeze tightly. He glances at his hand, then at John.

“Breathe,” John murmurs.

Sherlock is taken by the sudden and almost overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. He barely manages to control himself. How many times as he said this same thing to James over the past year? And now it’s his turn to be given this basic reminder.

“Breathing’s boring,” he murmurs back, and John’s tense features soften a little.

Only seconds later, both their smiles are forced and fake when they step onto the balcony, where Angela is just finishing to set the table. Her smile is no more genuine than theirs. This promises to be a long evening…


	22. Worse

_“Well. It could have been worse.”_

_Sherlock snorts._

*

Angela is on her best behavior. So are Sherlock and John. They’re all shamming, of course, and James is too clever not to see right through them, but he continues to smile as Angela welcomes them, shakes their hands, graciously accepts the wine bottle John offers her.

They debated about the necessity of a gift for a little while before coming. Sherlock thought it was silly; it’s not like they’re friends with the woman. John countered with, “Not for her. To make James happy.”

It’s scary at times how well he knows Sherlock. How well he can manipulate him if he cares to try. 

How well he can manipulate others, too.

*

_”Well played.”_

_“Hmm?”_

_“The wine.”_

_“I don’t know what you mean.”_

*

They share inane conversation about the weather and what a nice place this is. Sherlock would rather be anywhere but here. As they sit down, John at his side, James across from him and Angela next to James, he’s forcibly reminded of dozens of family dinners, each one more excruciating than the last. He thought he was done with this kind of torture. He almost wishes he were back in Serbia.

They hit the first snag just about as soon as they sit down to eat. Pasta will be the main course, as James announced, but roasted asparagus wrapped in prosciutto come first, and Angela suggests opening the bottle of wine to go with the dish. John does the honors, easily popping off the cork and serving Angela, Sherlock and himself. When he sets the bottle down on the table, Angela gives the tiniest of frowns to James’ empty glass.

“Do you want some, honey? Just a little so you can toast with us?”

James freezes, his fork inches from his mouth, his eyes rising to meet Sherlock’s with something that looks like old, faded guilt.

“No, thank you, I’m fine,” he says quietly.

“Oh, are you sure?” she insists. “Have you ever tried wine?”

James bites his lip and appears to steel himself. He’s preparing himself to lie, isn’t he? Sherlock speaks up before he can.

“He’s not allowed to have wine,” he says calmly.

“Not allowed?” Angela’s attention turns to him even as she lets out a little chuckle. “Who said he’s not allowed? A sip of wine never hurt anyone.”

Whether she expected an answer is unclear, but no one provides it to her. She’s quick to figure it out, though, and her amusement fades. Not even her fake smile survives the realization. 

“What about just a sip?” she asks, and as her eyes go from Sherlock to James, it’s hard to know which of them she expects an answer from.

“He’s hardly of age,” John comments, earning himself a dismissive glance from Angela that makes it clear she doesn’t require his opinion.

“I’d rather not,” James says quietly. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, honey,” she replies as though the whole thing doesn’t matter. “It’s up to you. You can change your mind later.”

The look she gives Sherlock dares him to contradict her. The one James casts toward him implores him to let it drop. It might be hypocritical for Sherlock to wash away the acerbic retort on his tongue with a sip of wine, but maybe hypocritical is better than antagonistic right now.

Or so he thinks until John casually rests a hand at the back of his neck. Sherlock looks at him, a little startled. They share touches of the sort easily enough, but rarely during meals. Add to that the way John draws Angela’s attention to him by praising the food, and Sherlock realizes the touch is anything but casual. John agreed not to tell James outright about Angela’s prejudices, but he seems intent on giving her an opportunity to reveal them herself.

*

_“You know, one of these days I’ll learn to stop underestimating you.”_

_“I don’t mind. As long as you do, I still get to surprise you.”_

_“Like I said, I’m not all that fond of surprises.”_

_“Even from me?”_

_“All right, maybe from you they’re endurable.”_

*

Angela notices – of course she does – and while her voice remains casual, her eyes are so cold it’s a wonder her eyelashes don’t frost over.

“Some old family recipes,” she says with a smile that looks painted on her lips. “Nothing very complicated, but I don’t get much of a chance to cook. It always feels silly to dirty more than one pan just for myself. But maybe that’ll change, now.”

There’s a challenge in her words. No doubt they’re meant to ask what she means and make a fuss about James spending more time with her now that she lives so close. Sherlock takes another sip of wine and bites his tongue not to say a word.

No, he doesn’t particularly care to give her more occasions to cook for more than herself. But no, he’s not going to be fool enough to start an argument about the topic right now and force James to pick a side. It wouldn’t be fair to him, especially since he’s made it clear repeatedly where he stands.

With the starters plate empty, Angela excuses herself to the kitchen. As soon as she has stepped inside, James leans a little toward Sherlock over the table, whispering, “She’s going to ask if I can spend the night here sometimes. Please say yes? It’ll only be from time to time, I promise.”

Before Sherlock can even process his words enough to think of a reply, let alone voice it, Angela calls out from inside.

“James, darling? Would you come help me carry this dish, please?”

James hurries away at once. Sherlock takes in a deep breath and holds it or a slow count of five.

“We knew it was coming,” John whispers, his hand briefly squeezing the back of Sherlock’s neck before he lets go.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replies, seeking his gaze for a moment. “That doesn’t make it any more pleasant.”

They can’t say anything more, not when Angela and James are returning with the previously announced homemade pasta and sauce, along with grilled vegetables.

All of it tastes like ashes to Sherlock, but in front of James’ pride at having cooked something from scratch – or helped, at the very least – he does his best to compliment the cooks. The entire time, he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for Angela to make the request James warned them about.

It’s not until they’ve finished some chocolate dessert Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about that she finally raises the issue. She presents the facts calmly – there’s ample room in her flat, and it’s close enough to Baker Street that it wouldn’t disrupt James’ life much, if at all, to spend the occasional weekend here. She could drive him to his riding lessons on Saturdays, and even get him to school on Monday mornings once the school year starts.

But for all her calm, it’s the same defiance in her eyes as they lock with Sherlock’s. She’s daring him, yet again, to cause an argument about the whole thing, and to appear unreasonable in front of James. Daring him to either cast her in the role of the victim, or to give her what she wants, what she’s been angling for by getting this place in London, forcing his hand from the start – or so she thinks.

Hasn’t she been listening to him? Hasn’t he told her repeatedly that he’s following James’ wishes in this whole matter?

“If James wants to spend some time here,” he says when she’s finished, “it’s his call. All I ask is a day’s notice. I’m not overly fond of surprises and changes of plans.”

“Agreed,” John concurs at once, and again it couldn’t be more obvious that Angela really doesn’t care for him to express his opinion. It doesn’t stop John from adding, “And you’ll refrain from picking him up from school or whatever other activities he may participate in unless it’s been agreed on beforehand. Sounds fair?”

He addresses the last to James, who beams as he answers it’s more than fair. Angela seems to think otherwise, but if she argues now that James agreed to those terms, she’ll take on the role of the unreasonable, inflexible parent she’s been trying to press on Sherlock.

“Very well,” she says with a wide smile that doesn’t quite reaches her eyes. “I’m glad we could find common ground, Sherlock. You don’t mind if I call you Sherlock, do you?”

Sherlock gives her the exact same smile back. “Of course not, Angie.”

A furious flash crosses her gaze, and he knows she remembers the only time he ever called her that before. He was threatening her, that time. He’s not threatening her today, but the warnings are there, loud and clear, if she only cares to listen.

But apparently she did not listen, because when he and John decline coffee and start hinting it’s time for them to go home, she rests a hand on James’ shoulder and asks him with the first real smile she has sported all evening, “Would you like to stay tonight? There’s plenty of leftovers for tomorrow, and I could use another pair of hands to help me unpack.”

She’s already trying to break the rules they just agreed on, and there’s no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that it’s deliberate. Before he can point it out, James gives her a small, apologetic smile as he shakes his head.

“Another time. I don’t have any clothes or any of my things here, and—”

“I actually got you some clothes,” she says with a tinkle of laughter. “I was walking in front of a store, and I saw something I thought you might like, and I couldn’t resist. And I got you a toothbrush, and toiletries. I told you, this is your home, too, now.”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock says after clearing his throat, “we already have plans for tomorrow. Which is why I made it a condition that we agree on these visits in advance, you understand.”

It’s a lie; they have no such plans for tomorrow, and James isn’t starting his school-sponsored program for another few days. From the glint in Angela’s eyes, she suspects as much, but she doesn’t press the matter. Instead, she says, turning back to James, “How about this coming weekend, then? You said you have a riding lesson on Saturday? I could pick you up and you could stay here until Sunday.” She casts an oblique look toward Sherlock. “I certainly hope two days is enough notice.”

Sherlock tries not to grit his teeth. He knew he’d regret this agreement sooner or later, but he didn’t expect it to be quite so soon.

*

James is very subdued as they make their way home, although when he says goodnight he makes it a point to thank both Sherlock and John for dinner, and for agreeing to Angela’s request.

“Nothing has changed,” Sherlock tells him with a shake of his head. “I said it was up to you how much contact you have with her. It’s still the case now.”

Smiling briefly, James turns away, then pauses and looks at them again. There’s a tiny frown on his brow and he looks like he’s about to say something, but in the end he merely says goodnight again before going up to his room. 

Dropping down into his armchair, John sighs heavily. Sitting across from him, Sherlock considers him, wondering whether to bring up John’s little games or not.

“Well,” John says with another sigh. “It could have been worse.”

Sherlock snorts.

“I suppose, yes. Although I have to admit you gave it your best try. Well played.”

Resting his cheek on his closed fist, John raises an eyebrow at him. “Hmm?”

Sherlock extends his legs until his toes are resting against John’s.

“The wine,” he says casually.

John’s toes push back against his.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Sherlock lets out a little huff, not quite a snort, not quite a laugh, but maybe a bit of both.

“I’m sure you know exactly what I mean, Doctor. Bringing wine as a present she’s bound to open during the meal, to see what happens when she offers James some? Flaunting demonstrations of affection when you know how sternly she reacted to those before?”

For a second or two, John looks like he’s going to deny it all. But then, he shrugs, and one corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly.

“I didn’t think the wine would work, actually. With her working so closely with kids, I figured it was a long shot to hope she’d offer him some. I suppose she wanted to look like the ‘cool parent.’ My father did. That’s how Harry started.”

His voice is taking a darker turn suddenly. He shrugs again and clears his throat before continuing.

“As for the rest, a pity she was on her best behavior.” After a brief pause, he adds, “You don’t mind, then?”

Sherlock shakes his head. No, he doesn’t mind. It’s actually the sort of things he might have done himself if he wasn’t so scared of antagonizing James. And yes, it’s a pity she didn’t do or say anything to help James understand what she thinks of Sherlock and John being a couple. Or did she? James can be quite observant at times, and Sherlock isn’t sure whether that holds true for his mother, or whether he has a blind spot where she is concerned.

“You know,” Sherlock drawls, running his toes against the arch of John’s right foot, “one of these days I’ll learn to stop underestimating you.”

“I don’t mind,” John replies, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “As long as you do, I still get to surprise you.”

“Like I said, I’m not all that fond of surprises.”

Standing, John approaches Sherlock’s armchair and leans in, one hand on each armrest, his face mere inches from Sherlock’s.

“Even from me?” he breathes.

Sherlock doesn’t know whether to look at his mouth or his eyes. He compromises by giving him a brief kiss before answering, “All right, maybe from you they’re endurable.”

With a quiet laugh, John straightens up. “I’m going to take a shower. Care to join me?”

“In a moment. I want to check on my messages before bed.”

With a roll of his eyes and an indulgent smile, John walks away. While Sherlock does check his phone, it’s something else he’s waiting for. Someone else. And it doesn’t miss. A minute or two after the sound of running water fills the flat, James comes downstairs and peeks around the sitting room, clearly hoping to find Sherlock there. He approaches with slow steps, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his pants.

“About the wine,” he starts, meeting Sherlock’s eyes straight on. “I mean. You don’t have to worry about that. Really. Just because she gives me permission, it doesn’t change anything.”

Sherlock considers him, noting the directness of his gaze. He wonders if James will be so determined if Angela brings it up again. He’ll have to trust him on that. Just like he trusts him for everything else.

“I appreciate the reassurance,” he says, and means it. “Especially since I never gave you a reason.”

James’ expression turns nonplussed. He comes a little closer, resting his arms on the back of John’s chair.

“A reason why you don’t want me to drink alcohol? Because I’m too young, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, inclining his head, and wishes he could leave it at that. “And no. My parents used to have a well-furnished wine cellar. Too well furnished. My father never noticed when bottles went missing.”

If he was stronger – if he was as courageous as James deserves him to be – he’d explain why oblivion through alcohol felt necessary, back then. And that he didn’t stop at wine when alcohol wasn’t enough anymore. Maybe one day he’ll share with James those parts of him. Tonight, he can’t find it in himself to do so. He didn’t use to mind these bits of his life so much, but somehow he’s learned to grow ashamed of some things he has done. 

James, as clever as always, takes those few words and extrapolates. He doesn’t ask why, or when. He doesn’t claim he would never. Instead he says, “But Mycroft did notice, didn’t he?”

Sherlock tries to smile, but he’s fairly certain what comes to his lips is a grimace.

“So now you know why,” he says rather than pursuing the topic. “It’s not about trusting you. It’s not about your age. It’s about the temptation to dull one’s mind and memories that I know all too well.”

Very slowly, James nods. Sherlock is about to say goodnight when a whisper rises between them.

“He’d drink, sometimes. Drink a lot. He never looked or sounded drunk, but he’d be… different. Cold. Angry. Even Sebastian looked scared whenever it happened.”

If there’s a correct reply to this, Sherlock doesn’t know what it is. He inclines his head to show he heard.

“I don’t think Angela would like to hear about that,” James goes on, still as quietly. “I’m not sure she believes what we told her about Father.”

It’s not exactly a surprise to Sherlock; from things she has said and her attitude, he had guessed as much. And she’s still wearing her wedding and engagement rings.

“Whether she believes or not,” he says, “the truth doesn’t change, and you know what the truth is. If she tries to make you think you’re mistaken about your father, please tell me. You don’t have to confront her about what she believes if you don’t want to, but she has no right to deny your own experiences were real.”

A moment passes in silence, and in James’ briefly tightening eyes, in the slow nod he finally offers, Sherlock thinks he sees his message getting across. Angela is entitled to her opinions about Jim; that doesn’t make them facts.

“All right,” James finally whispers, then says it again a little louder. “All right. Good night, Dad.”

It’s just one word, but it holds all the reassurances Sherlock didn’t even know he needed.

It could have been worse, indeed.


	23. Magnificent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't enough apologies in the world for taking so long but as always i fully intend to finish this story.

As days pass, a week, a second one, Sherlock continues to be surprised things are not, in fact, worse. He lives in a perpetual state of waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it’s even more nerve-wrecking for the fact that he has to hide his uneasiness from James.

It helps that James’ mind, these days, is busier than ever. The first three days of his week are devoted to his school’s art seminar, with mornings spent on theory and afternoons on practice. His Thursdays are spent at home, and at his request they’ve been working on language and violin lessons with renewed intensity. Fridays and Saturdays are spent at the riding center.

Still, Sherlock doubts James is as oblivious as he appears to be. More probably, he’s trying not to upset the delicate balance they’ve established.

After careful negotiations – all of which passed through James, with no direct contact between Angela, Sherlock and John – they’ve agreed that Angela will pick up James from the riding center on Saturday afternoons for the foreseeable future. He spends Saturday nights at her flat, and she brings him home on Sundays afternoons.

When Sherlock wonders aloud one day on how strange it seems to him that she hasn’t suggested picking up James from the center on Fridays and keeping him for the weekend, James’ face turns scarlet.

“She did, actually,” he admits in a small voice before applying more rosin to his bow as though to avoid meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock looks over James’ shoulder. Sitting in his armchair with a book as he usually does during their lessons, John returns his look with the same surprise Sherlock feels. Not surprise that she asked, but rather surprise that this is the first time they’ve heard of it.

“You didn’t tell us,” Sherlock says, as neutrally as he can manage.

“Well, no.” James winces a little before looking up. “I told her you wanted to keep it slow with just one night at her place for now.” He pauses briefly before adding, “Is that okay?”

Out of nowhere, a small smile pushes to Sherlock’s lips.

“Almost a year ago, one of the first things I told you was that I dislike repeating myself. How many times will I need to tell you it’s up to you how much of a relationship you want to have with Angela?”

Back then, James might have cringed and made himself as unobtrusive as he could upon hearing such words. Today, he takes them as the gentle teasing they are and smiles back—although the smile doesn’t last, and he’s frowning lightly as he puts the rosin away but doesn’t pick up his violin yet.

“Almost a year,” he repeats quietly. “It feels like a lot longer than that.”

Sherlock doesn’t have to ask if it’s a good thing or a bad one that this time together seems longer than almost a dozen months. He feels the same way. A lot has happened, in that year. A lot has changed. And they’ve come quite a long way. But despite unexpected, painful stops along the way, the journey was worth it. Nothing will change that. No one.

He doesn’t ask either if James would care to mark the day or celebrate in some fashion. The least they think about Moran – even if it’s to think of his death – the better. James hasn’t had a panic attack in weeks; he’d rather like to keep it that way.

*

The next Sunday afternoon, with John at the table typing up his latest blog post, Sherlock is standing at the window, looking out into the street, when Angela brings James back. Sometimes she drives, stopping only long enough to make sure he walks in the door before she drives off again. Today, they’re walking, no doubt enjoying the nice weather.

As he watches them come down the street, he can tell at once that something is off with her. The way she walks, the angle of her shoulders… 

He worries for a moment that something may have happened and looks at James intently, searching for signs, but there’s nothing there that he can see. Nothing except maybe some unease; no doubt he’s noticed that something is bothering Angela. Does he know what it is? Will he tell Sherlock when he comes in?

Or maybe Angela will tell him herself: rather than leaving James at the door, she comes up with him.

“We’re having a visitor today,” Sherlock tells John, and the wariness in his voice is matched by that in John’s eyes.

Is the other shoe about to drop at last?

The door to the landing is open, and Sherlock can see hesitation flash through James’ features when he stops there for a second or two. Angela’s hand rests briefly on his back and she murmurs something Sherlock doesn’t quite catch. With a slight grimace, James nods and walks up to his room. Angela comes in, walking only two steps past the threshold before she stops. Her expression, already severe, hardens a little more when she sees Sherlock standing by John, a hand on his shoulder.

“May I come in for a moment?” she asks coolly.

Sherlock replies with a sweeping gesture of his hand.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” John asks, a metal edge to his words.

She comes further in, never taking her eyes off them. In the hallway behind her, the stairs creak; James, of course.

“I just want to know if it is your doing,” she continues on the same icy tone. “Do you think that it’ll chase me back to Wales?”

Sherlock blinks in confusion. He’s felt like this before when visiting his mind palace and missing chunks of conversation, but he hasn’t taken his eyes or mind off her since she walked in, so he can’t have missed anything. She’s assuming he knows what she means, but he really doesn’t – and he tells her as much.

She snorts in reply.

“Am I really supposed to believe that? Months ago you threatened to discredit my school, to tell everyone it was funded by illegal activities if I didn’t back off. And now that I’ve moved to London to be closer to James, the money suddenly stops coming in after thirteen years. Did you think I wouldn’t make the connection?”

By the time it takes Sherlock to blink again, before he can even stat to formulate an answer, James appears at the door, frowning. The question in his eyes is different from the one Angela voiced, giving Sherlock at least the benefit of the doubt.

“We have nothing to do with this,” Sherlock says, and both his eyes and words are directed at James.

He couldn’t care less what Angela believes, but he doesn’t want James to even think for one moment he had anything to do with this. James, thankfully, accepts his denial with a nod and a fleeting smile. Angela, on the other hand…

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she asks, coming closer to them, anger all but radiating from her. “Do you think I don’t know you’re trying to restrict how much access I have to my own son? Do you think if I struggle to pay my rent I’ll just go away?”

“If he said they didn’t do it, then they didn’t,” James says from behind her.

She starts to turn around, but he’s walking in and past her. He sits on Sherlock’s chair before going on.

“And he hasn’t restricted how much I see you. It’s been up to me from the start.”

If James’ first words brought a frown to Angela’s face along with the promise of more arguments, the last ones cause some sort of pained, betrayed disappointment that Sherlock doesn’t like much – and even less so because James immediately looks down at his folded hands.

“Sherlock?” John says quietly, drawing his eyes to him. “Would Mycroft know why the payments stopped?”

Implied is the question, _Would he have found a way to stop the money without telling us, for the exact reason Angela claims?_

Sherlock wishes he could say for sure Mycroft didn’t cause this crisis, but he’s not certain at all. Pulling out his phone, he considers texting. On this particular occasion, however, speaking to him might be more expedient. Besides, it’ll be easier to tell if he’s lying if Sherlock can hear his voice.

He dials the number. The phone only rings once before Mycroft answers.

“Make it quick,” he says, sounding harried. “I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“All right. Do you know why the insurance payments made to Angela Peters might have stopped?”

A long pause follows; so much for being quick.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he says at last. “And so do you. I don’t know what it says about your mind that you thought me responsible before you remembered the man tasked with Jim Moriarty’s money transactions died seven months ago. I would hazard the guess that he’d already initiated the January payment before he was killed, but obviously he won’t be making a payment this month, or ever again. Is that all, Sherlock? I do have urgent business to attend to.”

Sherlock manages a word of goodbye before he hangs up. Mycroft is right, he should have figured it out on his own. Why is it that his brain refuses to work correctly for matters that touch James too closely?

When he looks up, he realizes they’re all looking at him, waiting to hear Mycroft’s answer. He clears his throat.

“A few months ago, the accountant Jim Moriarty had hired to issue those payments to you was murdered. That’s why they stopped.”

Understanding flickers over James’ face, but Angela looks nonplussed. 

“Surely someone else can take over. Insurance payments don’t depend on a specific accountant. Who do I need to talk to?”

A few years ago, Sherlock would have made the same response if he’d been in her position, but a familiar little voice he hasn’t heard in a while rings in his mind at her words.

_Not good._

A man died. Not a particularly good one, but she doesn’t know that. Shouldn’t she show at least a token of empathy toward him? And is that why James is casting such a blank look toward her?

“If it was actual insurance, yes,” John says dryly. “But you’re forgetting it never was insurance. It was money coming straight from Moriarty. I doubt there’s anyone you can talk to that would give you access to the bank account of an insane criminal, even if he was your husband.”

The glare she casts John is filled with such contempt that Sherlock steps forward before he even realizes what he’s doing. Ugly words are rising to his lips, and it is only when John, standing up, clasps his arm and stops him that Sherlock remembers James is in the room. As much as he wants to have a row with Angela, doing so in front of James might not be the best thing for any of them. 

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use that language when referring to _my husband_ in front of _my son_ ,” she demands coldly.

If John smiles, it’s with ice in his eyes. “Your _husband_ ,” he says in a low, dangerous voice, “once strapped a bomb to me. He hired gunmen to kill me and some very good friends of mine. I will call him whatever I please, including a criminal, a murderer, and a deranged psychopath. Although that last one is a bit redundant, I’ll grant you that much. And if James had a problem with that, I know he’d have told me long ago.”

His hand is tight enough to hurt on Sherlock’s arm, although Sherlock has a feeling he should be the one holding John back – not that he’d hit a woman, certainly, even if she pushes herself to her full height and seems ready to claw his eyes out. Her face is bright red, as though she’s been gathering steam and is ready to explode.

“He isn’t your son and you have no right—”

“Mum?”

It’s a quiet word that passes James’ lips, but it echoes through the room like a cannon. She turns to him, although only after giving John a scathing look that makes it clear the topic is far from closed.

“I’ve got money,” he continues just as quietly. “Father left me an account. I’m not sure how much is in it, but if you need money for the school…”

The anger brightening Angela’s cheeks drains away, turning her features almost ashen.

“Oh, darling, no, of course not. I’ll figure something out. Don’t you worry about it.”

Just like that, the crisis is over. In only moments, she’s made her goodbyes and is walking out of the flat, leaving a heavy silence behind her. John breaks it by clearing his throat.

“James? You _would_ tell me if it bothered you that—”

“No!” James exclaims at once. “I mean, yes I’d tell you, but no it doesn’t bother me. Father was a criminal. And a murderer, and probably insane.” He lowers his voice to finish. “I’ve told her, but I don’t think she wants to believe.”

That much, Sherlock thinks, seems more and more obvious every time he sees the woman. It’s as though the more time she spends with James, the less she believes what they’ve told her about Moriarty.

“I still think I could give the money to her school,” he goes on, even quieter now. “I never wanted it, and if the school needs it…”

Bringing his hand up, he worries his thumb nail with his teeth before catching himself and lowering his hand again.

“Would that be okay?” he asks with the shadow of a smile, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

“It’s yours to do with as you please,” Sherlock says as neutrally as he can manage. “But I’d advise listening to Angela if she says no. The whole situation is already complicated enough without adding money to it.”

After a brief pause, James nods, but Sherlock has a feeling it’s an indication that he heard rather than an agreement. He excuses himself to go up to his room.

“Well,” John says with a sigh, and passes the same hand that was holding on to Sherlock so tightly through his hair. “We were waiting for it to get worse, here’s—”

Upstairs, James’ door closes. It was what Sherlock was waiting for. Cupping John’s face in both his hands, he kisses him within an inch of his life.

“You,” he breathes when he pulls back, “were magnificent.”

John blinks rapidly a few times, then grins. 

“Thought so, did you?”

Sherlock did. And still does. He tiptoes around Angela because he doesn’t want James to have to pick a side, but to hear John put her in her place like that…

Drawing John to the bedroom, he makes sure to show him just how brilliant he thought that was.


	24. Fitting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get used to the fast update :P

James’ tie is immaculate. His suit… not so much. 

“It doesn’t fit anymore.”

“Clearly,” Sherlock says, his eyes going from James’ exposed socks to his wrists. Even the fit across the shoulders seems too tight. “You’ve grown. We’ll need to get you new suits.”

Not that James actually needs suits. He hadn’t worn a full one in months. Why he tried this one on tonight, Sherlock cannot fathom. Unless—

“But the gala is in four days,” James says urgently. “They’ll never have it ready in time.”

—he wants to wear a suit to the art class gala. Sherlock thinks of asking whom he wants to impress, Angela or Laure, but he’s fairly certain he knows the answer.

“If we go first thing in the morning,” Sherlock says, “we might be able to put a rush order in. But you’ll have to miss riding practice.”

James looks unhappy at the prospect, but he nods. “All right. Thanks.”

He’s about to turn to go back to his room when John chimes in from behind his laptop.

“Do tell Angela what you’re up to. We wouldn’t want her to think we’re keeping you from her.”

There’s a definite frostiness to his voice when he says Angela’s name; Sherlock isn’t the only one to notice it.

“I will,” James says. Again, he starts turning away. Again, he stops short of completing his turn, looking at John across the room. “I know you don’t like her much, and I know you have cause—”

“Do you?” John cuts in, though not unkindly. “Do you know, really?”

“Well, yes,” James says, now frowning. “She hasn’t exactly made it a secret that she wants to spend more time with me, and that scares Sherlock, and makes him unhappy, and you don’t like it when things make him unhappy, so you don’t like her.”

He says it in such a matter of fact way that Sherlock has to wonder how many times he has turned the words over and over in his mind. He’s not wrong, as such, not about any of it… but there’s more to it. Looking at John, Sherlock can tell how badly he wants to tell James what else bothers him about Angela. He catches John’s eyes and shakes his head just once. John holds his gaze for a few seconds, then inclines his head.

“Is there another reason?” James asks, as always too perceptive for his own good.

“It scares me too,” John says with a thin smile that doesn’t quite touch his eyes. “I don’t want to lose you any more than Sherlock does. You know that, right?”

Judging from the glint of surprise in James’ eyes, he might not have realized as much. A tiny smile flutters on his lips and he nods.

“What I was going to say,” James goes on quietly, “is that she’s not a bad person. She’s not perfect, but she’s not insane, or a murderer. Just…” 

He struggles for a moment, finally finishing with, “Just not perfect.”

Another small smile, and he finally leaves the room. Moments later, his door closes upstairs.

“Think he knows?” John murmurs then.

“That his mother is… prejudiced?”

“If that’s what you want to call it, yes.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and lies down on the sofa again, returning to his mind palace where he was doing some much needed cleaning before James walked in to show them his too-small suit. 

“I don’t know,” he says absentmindedly. “The clues are there, but I’m not sure he wants to see them.”

Sometimes, it’s easier not to let oneself see the truth. Sherlock knows that because, before going in his exile, he didn’t let himself see how much John meant to him. If he’d done so, it’d have upset the balance they’d found. Only when that balance was broken did he allow himself to see what should have been plain as day.

Sooner or later, James’ balance is going to tip. All Sherlock can do is hope that, when it does, it doesn’t shatter every last bit of progress he’s accomplished in the past year.

*

Looking up from his phone, Sherlock watches the tailor set another pin close to James’ shoulder.

“Are you sure you only want one?” he asks.

James gives a short nod. “I’m in my school clothes or riding uniform most of the time. One suit is enough.”

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound and returns his eyes to his email inbox. He hasn’t had a good case in weeks and he’s starting to get bored.

“And this decision has nothing to do with my refusal to take your money, I assume?”

Whatever reply James was going to offer, he ends up not saying a word, and frowns instead when his phone beeps from his jeans pocket.

“Third time,” Sherlock notes. “Maybe you should reply.”

With practiced movements, the tailor pulls the pieced-together suit jacket off James.

“This should do for now. If you’ll give me a few minutes, we’ll get a fitting done for the pants.”

James hops off the pedestal and comes to take a seat by Sherlock. He pulls out his phone and sighs.

“She’s not happy,” he says quietly. 

“Angela?” Sherlock asks, although he already knows the message tone that has been ringing all morning is associated with her.

To his surprise, James offers him his phone.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Go ahead,” James says. “And then you can tell me what I’m supposed to answer to that.”

Sherlock takes the phone almost reverently. The last time he read James’ text messages on this particular device, he’d lost James, and could only berate himself for not noticing he’d been having conversations with someone he believed to be his father. That he’s offering his phone to Sherlock now, asking for his advice… it means a lot.

The first message at the top of the screen dates from Thursday evening, when James showed them his too short suit. Sherlock slowly scrolls down through a day and half’s worth of texts, ending with a handful of unanswered ones from last night and this morning.

_Hi Mum. I won’t be riding on Saturday so I’ll give you a call when I’m back home and you can pick me up there if that’s OK?_

_Of course darling  
Why aren’t you riding?_

_Sherlock is taking me to get a new suit  
mine are too small_

_Oh I’ll take you then. There’s a lovely shop for children clothes I wanted to take you to.  
Sorry, ‘young adult’!  
Should I pick you up around 9am then?  
If we’re quick about it you might have enough time to go ride _

_Sorry, I should have said, get a new custom suit  
they have to take my measurements so it takes a while_

_a custom suit? Why do you need such a thing?  
You grow so fast, it’ll be too small in no time  
I promise you, that shop I want to take you to has very nice things_

_Maybe we can go another time then  
I’m off to bed, night Mum._

_Good morning darling  
About Saturday, why don’t I take you to get that custom suit then?_

_Morning  
It’s okay, it’s already arranged with Sherlock_

_I still think I should take you. It’d be a nice thing to do together._

_It’s a men’s shop Mum. I don’t think they allow women in the fitting room_

_Is Sherlock going to be there?  
Surely if they allow your ‘father’ they should allow me  
Or I’ll just stay in the front room or wherever else  
What time should I pick you up, then?_

_I will call you when I’m home, like we agreed  
Art class starting now, ttyl_

_Why didn’t you pick up? I know your class is over by now  
You know, I keep thinking about tomorrow, and I really want to be there. Saturdays and Sundays are my favorite time of the week, you know. I don’t want to miss a single one.  
And I could give you a woman’s opinion on colors. I’ve been told I have good taste for clothes   
Is this tailor is Savile Row? What time are you going there darling?  
Or are you there already?  
James it’s not fair of you to ignore me like this._

An unsettling feeling swarms over Sherlock’s insides. On a surface level, this all reads like someone having a jealous fit, and he has no doubt that’s how James interprets it, too annoyed maybe to see past the ‘it’s my day’ that’s all but implied throughout. But Sherlock remembers an unfinished sentence, a few weeks back, and it colors the exchange very differently.

 _“Not my business,”_ Angela once said in regard to his relationship with John, _“except that my son lives with you and—”_

Sherlock has often wondered since that day what would have come after this ‘and’ if he hadn’t interrupted her. She wouldn’t care that they’re gay but she does because her son lives with them and… and what? 

And she fears homosexuality is contagious?

And she wants ‘real men’ as role models for her son?

And she doesn’t want him to view ‘sin’ as natural?

Or is it something worse than that? She seemed to become particularly determined once she understood Sherlock would be present for the fittings.

Realization brings the bitter taste of bile to the back of Sherlock’s tongue. Angela doesn’t know about James’ past, so she doesn’t know that the topic of abuse isn’t one she should tread lightly. If she makes it any more obvious to James, it’s going to blow up in her face. And as much as Sherlock would enjoy that, he doesn’t want to see James suffer through the repercussions.

Handing the phone back to him, he considers his answer carefully. The tailor is coming back with the rough pants his assistant has been cutting in the backroom while he was fitting the jacket. In another half hour, they should be done for today.

“Why don’t you tell her to pick you up here in forty-five minutes?” he suggests. “You’ll be done by then, and you can show her the fabric you chose. It might placate her.”

If he says forty-five minutes, no doubt she’ll be there in half an hour, if not earlier; coming early to check that nothing untoward is happening – or to confirm her own fears.

With a less than enthusiastic shrug, James sends a message before setting his phone on the chair and walking into the changing room to put on the rough pants. While he’s in there, his phone chimes again and Sherlock can’t resist giving it a look.

James sent a link to a map with a pin where the shop is, along with a text.

_Sorry, hard to answer the phone when the tailor is using me as a pincushion!  
Should be done in 45 min. Do you want to come pick me up here?  
Or at Baker Street in an hour if you prefer._

Angela’s reply is predictable.

_On my way_

Either she was nearby or she broke a few traffic laws on the way because a mere fourteen minutes pass before the bell rings in the front room. The assistant comes out from the back to go help whoever is ringing the bell a second time. James looks at Sherlock across the room and sighs when they hear Angela’s voice through the privacy curtains that separates the two rooms. She’s being very persistent in her desire to attend the fitting despite the assistant’s protests. Raising his eyes to the ceiling, Sherlock pockets his phone and takes the swatch of fabric from the counter, walking past the curtain and into the front room.

“Good afternoon, Angela,” he says with a smile fake enough that she’s in no danger of believing it to be real. “James will be done with his fitting soon.”

The smile she gives him in return could refrost melting glaciers.

“So this gentleman tells me,” she says, tilting her head to the assistant who looks quite happy to let Sherlock do the talking. “Surely I can be there to help my son with design choices. Who better than a woman for that?”

The assistant looks affronted at that, and ready to reenter the conversation. Sherlock stops him short by holding up the swatch of fabric – dark blue with barely there black pin stripes.

“I’m afraid he already chose, and the fabric is already cut.” He lowers his voice, smiling more broadly still. “He wanted it to be a surprise for the gala, but I guess you can have a peek. He chose plain white cotton for the shirt. And a classic cut for the suit.”

She looks at the swatch for no more than a second before looking Sherlock up and down. He’s wearing his navy suit today, with a white shirt John never fails to pull off him with the utmost care.

“I wonder who gave him the idea to wear such a thing,” she says, low enough that the bite in her words might not carry through the curtain… except that James opens it at that moment, back in his jeans, his phone in hand.

He gives her a blank look before answering in a just as blank voice, “That would be Father. One of those lessons I never forgot.”

Angela has no reply.

By the time they walk out of the shop, with the tailor’s repeated instructions to be back Monday evening at 8 o’clock sharp, Angela’s struck expression has smoothed out again, and James seems mollified. Or maybe it’s his stomach speaking.

“I’m starving! Can we go get something to eat?”

Angela is all too eager to agree.

His eyes invite Sherlock along, but Sherlock declines with a smile and a shake of his head.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, touching James’ shoulder lightly before they part ways.

Watching James and Angela walk to a nearby restaurant, he only hopes he was wrong about Angela’s fears. Surely if she believed Sherlock capable of such things, she would fight harder to get James away from him.

Wouldn’t she?


	25. Skulls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been remiss in answering your comments, but please believe each one is treasured and offered to my muse as fuel for the next chapter.  
> <3

When Sherlock looks into the mirror, he’s not sure what is most incredible about the reflection it gives him: is it that he’s wearing a tie – willingly – even though he’s not going to a funeral? Is it the presence of John behind him, now much more than the flatmate he used to be? Or is it the presence of the child talking to John, a child whose wariness used to seep in every word, every careful movement, and who now talks with such excitement his eyes seem brighter than usual?

He tightens his tie a little more. It had been so long, he had to look up how to tie an Eldredge knot on Youtube, but it now looks perfect, the blue silk shimmering as it catches the light. He bought it, along with a new tie for James, when they went to pick up his suit. The saleslady said it brought out his eyes and that he was sure to make an impression on his ‘partner’. The words struck him at the time, offered in as casual a tone as ‘girlfriend’ might have been not that long ago.

He looks behind him in the mirror again. The world is changing.

And his tie is definitely the strangest thing here tonight.

“You’ve told us all about Laure’s sculptures,” he says as he turns and joins the conversation. “But you haven’t said a word about what you made.”

A touch of pink brushes James’ cheeks. 

“Because it’s nothing special,” he says with a one-shoulder shrug, then points at Sherlock’s tie. “For someone who doesn’t wear ties, it looks pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Sherlock repeats, mock-offended. He realizes James is deflecting, but he doesn’t mind. They’ll see soon enough what kind of art he created.

“He already retied mine,” John says, a laugh hiding in his words. “There’s no shame in letting him redo yours too, Sherlock. Did you know he can do over eighty knots?”

James flashes him a smile, and Sherlock has the distinct impression he’s missing something – an in-joke, or a shared experience, maybe. He doesn’t mind, far from it. On the contrary, he’s all too glad James and John get along so well.

“Over ninety, now,” James corrects him. “I’ve been practicing. And I can definitely do a very neat Eldredge knot.”

The last is offered with another side look to Sherlock, who does _not_ run a hand over his tie self-consciously. He’s just checking it’s hanging straight, that’s all.

In the end, Sherlock’s ‘pretty good’ knot is deemed worthy enough for the occasion, and on they go to the school and its art gala.

The tie, Sherlock realizes as soon as they enter the gym, repurposed into an art gallery for the night, is in no way too extravagant. Every man here wears a suit and tie, every woman an evening dress carefully accessorized – including Laure, who rushes to them as soon as she sees them come in. How she manages to give the impression she’s bouncing while wearing heels, Sherlock isn’t quite sure. It must be some kind of skill women are taught early on.

“Hello Mr. Holmes, hello Doctor Watson,” she says breathlessly as she reaches them, “you don’t mind if I steal James for a minute, do you?”

She doesn’t actually wait for a reply before taking James’ hand and leading him away, where a tall, slightly tanned man is staying a good four feet away from her mother even though he’s talking to her.

“Her father?” John guesses. “She’s not losing any time, is she, introducing James to him? So much for best friends.”

Sherlock concurs – on all points. He’s also fairly interested by the fact that her heels, no more than two inches high now that he has a proper look at them, put her exactly at the same height as James. And James didn’t merely allow her to take his hand, he’s holding back, his fingers gently curled around hers even now that he’s shaking hands with her father.

“Best friends is a good place to start,” Sherlock says, tongue in cheek, with a pointed look at John.

John’s smile manages to be bashful and full of pride all at once, and Sherlock fights back the sudden urge to kiss those barely curved lips he knows so well. He used to roll his eyes at other people’s PDAs, but lately he finds himself much more tolerant.

“Should we wait for him,” he asks, glancing at James again, “or do you want to walk around and see if we can find his art?”

Even as John is about to reply, his eyes drift to something behind Sherlock and widen slightly. Sherlock turns and feels the same surprise at seeing his mother approach, her steps slow but steady as she holds on to Mycroft’s arm. They’re both dressed in black, Mycroft in a suit whose starkness is only relieved by a deep burgundy tie, Mummy in a long-sleeved evening dress cinched with a navy blue belt that matches her sapphire earrings and necklace. She looks remarkably well – better than when they saw her at the beginning of the summer.

“John,” she says, holding out her free hand to John, who wraps both of his around it. “You brave man. How did you manage to wrangle a tie around my son’s neck?”

John lets out a quick laugh before leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“I can claim no credit on that,” he says, smiling at Sherlock. “I think he just couldn’t bear the idea of being underdressed compared to James and me.”

Sherlock huffs, but refrains for arguing the point.

“Mummy,” he says, brushing his lips to the cheek she pointedly offers him – a cheek dusted with blush, with just a trace of eyeshadow on her eyelids. “Mycroft didn’t say you were coming.”

The last is directed at Mycroft, who seems untouched by the annoyance lacing Sherlock’s words.

“We weren’t sure Mummy would be up to it,” Mycroft says, briefly resting a hand on her arm in a gesture that’s almost tender enough to startle Sherlock. “But James did seem very keen on having us attend. Where is he, anyway?”

As though summoned by those words, James returns, his hand still wrapped around Laure’s. Following a round of greetings and introductions, Mummy demands to see both teenagers’ work, and they guide her away toward the first group of paintings and sculptures arranged together on temporary walls and pedestals. As curious as he is, Sherlock doesn’t immediately follow, and looks a question at Mycroft, who shrugs delicately.

“She was in town for a treatment,” he says, sotto voce. “She’s always better, afterwards. For a few days at least. I had to cajole her to do the previous one, but this time she was more than willing. She really looked forward to being here tonight.”

Implied is the fact that she hasn’t been looking forward to much, if anything at all, in quite some time.

“Shall we?” Mycroft says with a tilt of his head toward Mummy, who is currently inspecting a canvas Sherlock can’t quite make out from where he stands.

They’re just starting to move when a cool voice says behind them, “Good evening.”

Sherlock wipes the grimace from his face before he turns to Angela. He was hoping to keep contact with her to a minimum tonight – a glance and a nod from across the room would have been just fine with him.

Alas.

“Good evening,” he says as he turns to her with the fakest smile in his arsenal. 

She replies in kind before cutting to the chase. “Would you be so kind as to point me toward my son?”

“But of course,” Mycroft answers in a voice dripping with an unctuousness that’s ruined by the ice in his eyes. “He’s over there with his grandmother. We were just about to join them.”

A blank look settles on Angela’s features.

“His grandmother?” she repeats dryly.

“Sherlock’s and my mother,” Mycroft says in the same unctuous voice. “She’s very fond of James, as he is of her. So be kind enough to watch what you say to her, Miss Peters, or you will find that I can be much less accommodating than my brother when it comes to my family.”

His tone of voice notwithstanding, it’s a threat he just issued, and Angela’s widening eyes and suddenly red cheeks make it clear she understands that much. She walks past them without a word and goes straight to James.

“Was that necessary?” Sherlock asks under his breath as the three of them follow.

“Was it necessary for me to show restraint when I could destroy that woman without hardly trying at all?” Mycroft replies deadpan. “I wouldn’t say ‘necessary’ per se, but it’s what James asked of me. I hope for her sake she heeds my warning. If she ruins this for Mummy…”

He doesn’t finish as they are now close enough to Mummy, James, Laure – and Angela – to be overheard, but his meaning is clear. Sherlock starts to say something, but John catches his eye and shakes his head. Maybe he has a point.

The second round of introductions is already over. Mummy’s expression is perfectly polite, but Sherlock knows her well enough to guess she’s not a fan of Angela’s. Mummy continues to hold on to James’ arm, and his other hand is still entwined with Laure’s, which leaves Angela on the outside. Angela may be smiling, but her eyes convey her annoyance.

Having already examined James’ collage and Laure’s clay sculpture, Mummy requests to see the next exhibit and the three of them walk away. After a quick look at the collage, Angela follows them, leaving Sherlock, John and Mycroft behind.

“First week of the program,” John reads from a note on the partition wall. “The theme was—”

“Water,” Sherlock and Mycroft finish together.

That much is obvious, looking around at paintings of ponds and rivers, sculptures of waves or fish hiding in seaweed. James’ piece is only a little larger than two sheets of paper side by side. Pieces of paper torn from magazines have been arranged to create the tumultuous gray-blue waves of a stormy ocean, a round frame in shades of gray suggesting a boat’s window. In the lower right corner, James signed his work with his initials, JH… or is is JM? There’s a slight curve to the middle bar of the H, and it’s hard to tell if it’s an H at all.

“A bit too ‘crafty’ for my taste,” Mycroft appraises coolly.

Sherlock throws him a glare – and never mind that he was thinking the same thing.

“First week of the program,” John said with mild reproach. “Surely you didn’t expect a Monet on his first try?”

Deep down, Sherlock has to admit to himself that yes, part of him was expecting something extraordinary from James.

Onward they move to the next cluster of artwork – the second week. The theme, this time, was ‘fears.’ Laure is currently explaining her sculpture to Mummy and Angela, a slab of clay that looks to have been broken on purpose. James’ work, this time, was made with colored pencils. It shows a neck tie, slightly off center on the canvas, with just a hint of the collar at the top and the sides of a dark jacket framing the white shirt. The tie, navy blue with a grid of tiny white dots, features skulls on a diagonal pattern. Each one is rendered in exquisite details.

“I’ve seen that tie before,” John says quietly.

Mycroft’s quiet hum seconds that statement.

Of course they’ve seen it before. Moriarty had excellent taste.

“Is that one of yours?” Angela asks from behind Sherlock’s shoulder, her voice low enough that no one else might hear.

“Why don’t you ask James?” he retorts without granting her so much as a look.

But James has already moved on, his arm steady as he guides Mummy toward the next display. Laure is gone – a quick look finds her with her parents. They all follow.

“Is your mother aware he’s not your son?” Angela asks in the same low voice.

“I fail to see how that’s any of your business,” Sherlock offers with a smile that bares his teeth. “But please, be my guest and ask her about it. It’s been a while since I watched her tear someone apart with nothing but words. It always was very entertaining.”

She moves away with a huff. As he shakes his head, Sherlock notices Mycroft’s eyes following her. There’s danger in them, more so than his earlier threat suggested. How hard is it for him to remain one step back rather than intervene?

The next theme is ‘music’ – and James’ next drawing takes Sherlock’s breath away. Objectively, it’s still the work of a student and it could be better. Some perspective angles are wrong, it’s very static with no movement to it, and in a few places the charcoal he used was smudged and it’s clear it wasn’t done on purpose. And still…

It’s perfect.

“It’s beautiful, honey,” Angela gushes. “Is that your dad and you?”

There are no faces on the drawing. A grand piano takes most of the canvas, with the keys at an angle from the middle of the left side to the lower right corner. Three hands rest on the keys – an adult’s hand and two slightly smaller ones. On top of the piano rests a violin case, closed but easily recognizable.

James turns ever so slightly and catches Sherlock’s eyes as he answers his mother.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “That’s Dad and me.”

Sherlock inclines his head and doesn’t try to hide his smile, telling him without a word that yes, he remembers that night – for many reasons. It was at John’s wedding that James touched a piano for the first time in years. He might play the violin quite well, but there’s no doubt he prefers the piano.

A moment passes in silence, and as each of them glance at him in turns, Sherlock realizes that John, Mycroft and his mother all recognize the violin case if not his hand; they know whom James meant when he said ‘Dad.’ Angela, of course, has a different idea on the subject.

The meaning of the word ‘family’ has never been clearer to Sherlock than it is in this moment.


	26. Cacophony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the chapter i set to write but... it is what it is.
> 
> Happy 2018, folks. My goal is to finish this story with 2-3 months. Wish me luck...

For the first time this evening, Sherlock finds himself alone.

Mummy and Mycroft excused themselves after a short speech by the director of the program; Mummy was getting tired, although she wouldn’t admit it and claimed Mycroft was the one who needed them to leave because he has an early engagement in the morning. She fooled no one, of course.

James walked them out, and he hasn’t been back since, although Sherlock is sure he’s somewhere in the large, overcrowded room. Angela drifted away – good riddance – while John went looking for refreshments.

So here he stands, alone, in front of another one of James’ paintings. This is the most recent one, although not the last prompt of the program. Apparently, James elected to keep working on this piece rather than move on to the final prompt, and Sherlock can understand why. On the oversized canvas, James took the topic of ‘details’ to heart by depicting many apparently unrelated things. Whether from up close or farther away, the impression is of a mess, a visual cacophony of incomplete objects. It’s not a pretty painting; it’s not meant to be pretty.

Some objects are easily identifiable. The scroll of a violin, with a tiny nick on the right side, identifies it as James’. Another tie – only the knot is pictured – displays the colors of James’ school. A horse’s hoof is rendered in excruciating details. A geometric design in shades of beige, imitating carved stone, takes an entire corner; the original decorates the corner of the dining room fireplace in the Holmes’ home in Sussex. The vivid red tip of a cigarette stands out against a dark background.

Other details require more work. Sherlock is fairly certain the black and silver lines in the bottom right corner are meant to be the barrel of a gun, although he’s not sure it would be readily apparent to other people. He’ll have to ask John what he thinks, if he ever finds his way back from the refreshments table.

Turning around to check on him, Sherlock finds himself facing Laure’s father instead. The man immediately offers his hand to Sherlock.

“The famous Mister Holmes,” he says with a smile that seems fully genuine. “French newspapers are fond of reporting on your exploits. Although I’m sorry to say you haven’t made headlines recently.”

As he shakes his hand, Sherlock takes in details that confirm what he already knew of the man and add to it: a little older than Laure’s mother, French, mid-list actor, just back from a Caribbean vacation with a much younger girlfriend. He didn’t bring her here tonight; she might not be his girlfriend anymore by the end of the year.

“The criminal class hasn’t deigned to offer me a good case in a while,” he says with a small shrug. “How are you enjoying the show, Mr. Deligny?”

A slight widening of Deligny’s eyes reveals he didn’t expect to be addressed by this name. Not the name he uses professionally, then – but his real name, the one Laure shares.

“Interesting,” he says, looking around and slipping his hands in his pockets. “Some pieces more than others. You were looking at this one… your son’s?” At Sherlock slight nod, he adds, “It’s very… what is the word… intricate?”

From his expression, he looks almost wary of Sherlock’s reaction… but then, why come to him and offer this assessment of James’ work? Unless it’s something else altogether he wants to talk about. Seeing how Laure took James to meet him as soon as they arrived, no doubt he’s wondering about their relationship. Wondering… or worrying?

Either way, Sherlock cuts to the chase.

“James has told us many times he and Laure are merely friends. Personally, I have my doubts about that.”

Relief crosses Deligny’s features, probably about the fact that he won’t have to angle toward the topic.

“She said the same thing, but she’s never introduced friends to me before. They’re a little young to be… involved, don’t you think?”

Sherlock keeps his face neutral. “It depends what you mean by ‘involved’ I suppose. I’m not an expert on the topic, but as I understand it, it’s a normal part of adolescent behavior to develop romantic attachments.”

“Of course,” Deligny agrees with a tense smile. “Of course. But I must confess, when I was a teenage boy I might have been at times more interested in attachment than in romance, if you know what I mean. Being the father of a young woman certainly makes me understand the fathers of my girlfriends a lot better than I did then. And I think it might have been good for my own father to remind me I ought to respect ladies, and not pressure them into anything.”

Sherlock blinks slowly, finding himself momentarily at a loss for words. On one hand, he understands in the abstract what this whole conversation is about, and he has no reason to object to anything Deligny said. On the other hand, this is not an abstract situation at all. It’s about James, and Laure, and James _and_ Laure, and if and when pressuring happens, Sherlock isn’t convinced at all it will come from James.

He is saved from having to reply when John finally returns, a glass of champagne in each hand. He offers one to Sherlock, along with a smile, before raising a questioning eyebrow.

“This is Mr. Deligny,” Sherlock tells him after a beat. “Laure’s father. And this,” he adds, addressing Deligny, “is John Watson. My partner.”

It’s not often he uses the word, and he continues to find it extremely lacking as a descriptive of everything John is to him, but it nonetheless rolls off his tongue easily, tinted with a bit of warmth and pride. The briefest glint of surprise flickers through Deligny’s eyes, though there’s nothing but pleasantness in his voice when he extends his hand to John. 

“Of course, Doctor Watson! Pleased to meet you. I was telling Mister Holmes earlier how the French press is quite fond of your adventures.”

Small chat ensues, which Sherlock tunes out almost completely. He doesn’t care much what the foreign press makes of him. He sips on his champagne, his gaze sweeping the room. He finds Angela first, not that he was looking for her. She’s talking with Laure’s mother, and while she puts up a good front she seems tense. Dismissing her from his thoughts, Sherlock keeps looking until he finally finds James. His hand is entwined with Laure’s once more as they, and a few more of their peers, talk with the director of the art program. There’s something about the way James holds himself, about his shoulder casually brushing against Laure’s that tickles Sherlock’s mind. Hard to tell from across the room, but he suddenly has a better idea of what James might have been up to earlier when he was nowhere to be found.

Deligny finally excuses himself.

“Nice bloke,” John comments. “He looks familiar. Didn’t James say he’s an actor?”

“He’s concerned our children will make us grandparents too early.”

John’s head snaps back as though he’d been hit. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly before he manages to articulate a croaking, “What?”

“Not his exact words,” Sherlock concedes with a small appeasing gesture, “but I’m fairly certain that’s what he was getting to with his talk of respecting ladies.”

“And how did you reply?” John asks, a crooked smile tugging at one corner of his lips.

“You thankfully stopped me before I could tell him he should talk to his daughter just as much if not more than I should talk to James.”

“Talk to me about what?” James asks, suddenly appearing at their sides.

His eyes are bright, and so is his smile. His tie isn’t quite as neat as it was earlier tonight. Rather than answering, Sherlock hands him a handkerchief – old habit, that; he rarely uses it, but he usually has one in his suit pocket.

“What’s that for?” James asks, perplexed, as he considers the folded square of fabric in his hand.

“You’ve got lipstick at the corner of your mouth,” Sherlock says with no inflection whatsoever.

James turns scarlet and drops his eyes to dab at his lips. When he looks at the handkerchief and finds it still immaculate, he frowns then turns an accusing look at Sherlock.

“Thank you for confirming my suspicions,” Sherlock says deadpan. 

John buries a burst of laughter in his glass while James turns even redder if that was possible. Emotions flutter over his features, embarrassment and annoyance, outrage and sheepishness, until he finally shakes his head, a smile back of his lips.

“Did you meet the director of the program? I wanted to introduce him to you.”

And on they go, with no more talks of lipstick.

*

Back at Baker Street that night, Sherlock doesn’t join John in bed right away. After being around so many people, his mind feels too full of noise, tidbits of information he has no use for cluttering his head. Alone in the darkened sitting room, he clears his thoughts, sorts through his memories, tidies up his memory palace a little to make room for James’ art pieces, and what they tell him about his son. That last painting, in particular, is something he’d like to examine closely again. He has a feeling those objects pictured so intricately are not as random as they first appeared. Are they a representation of James’ mind, of the thoughts and memories that fill his head? Or do they tell a story – his story – to anyone who knows him well enough to decipher the clues?

It’s long past midnight when slow steps creak down the staircase. It surprises him a little. James looked exhausted when he said goodnight.

“You’re not asleep?” James murmurs when he comes into the room.

“Not any more than you are, it seems.”

He almost asks, _what’s troubling you?_ but he knows all he has to do is wait. James will tell him when he’s ready. He always does.

Except that James, after helping himself to a glass of water, comes to sit on John’s chair, his bare feet on the seat and his knees drawn up in front of him. Long minutes pass. He says nothing.

Sherlock clears his throat. Should he says something first? But what?

Rewinding the evening in his mind, he stops at his handkerchief deception. James seemed to accept it as the gentle teasing it was meant to be and nothing more, nor did he appear upset afterward, but if Sherlock touched a nerve…

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he offers gingerly. “I’m sorry if I did.”

From behind his raised knees, James blinks owlishly.

“Embarrass me? When did you do that?”

“The non-existent lipstick?”

Even in the darkness, Sherlock can see James’ cheeks redden.

“Oh. That. I wasn’t embarrassed. I just felt silly because she wasn’t even wearing lipstick. I only remembered afterward.”

Despite himself, Sherlock smiles; when James does the same, he can’t resist asking, “Nice first kiss?”

“Yeah,” James whispers. “Really nice. I was hoping…”

When he falters, Sherlock wonders if Deligny might have been right to worry—until James speaks again and turns the conversation to a topic Sherlock didn’t expect tonight.

“It’ll be one year in four days since you killed Moran.”

“One year since you and I met,” Sherlock counters with a small nod.

If James understands the reframing, he doesn’t comment on it. he goes on as though Sherlock hadn’t spoken.

“Four days before he died, he… that was the last time he… did _that_. I was hoping… I thought if I kissed Laure, it’d be like… a nice memory. To erase the bad one.”

Sherlock doesn’t dare move a muscle, let alone say a word.

“And it’s a really nice memory,” James goes on, even lower now. “But it doesn’t erase anything.”

A year ago, before he knew anything about James or cared about him, an answer would have been easy to offer: of course memories don’t work like that. The good ones don’t erase the bad ones, and the bad ones don’t erase the good ones. They all merely coexist, and on any given day bad or good will seem more prominent. Some might fade with time, but they can’t just be replaced at will.

Saying this now would feel like cutting James’ chest open to excise every thread of hope he still clings to.

“James,” Sherlock starts, and stops at once. He has no idea what to say. He never did. He convinced himself listening was enough… but is it? Or is he too close to James now to even do that much?

“You don’t have to say anything,” James whispers with a pained smile. “I was just… it was silly to even think—”

“No.” Sherlock leans forward in his armchair, hands clasped like in prayer. “It’s not silly. You want to heal. There’s nothing silly about that. And I wish I could help, but it feels like I’ve taken you as far as I could on that journey.”

James’ frown makes it clear he doesn’t understand – or maybe he does, but doesn’t want to.

“I’ll never force you to talk to anyone you don’t want to talk to,” Sherlock goes on despite the shards of glass tearing his throat apart. “But I’d like you to consider the idea. Someone else might be able to—”

“No one would understand. Not like you do. Half the time I don’t even have to tell you, you just _get_ it.”

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Sherlock says, swallowing back a sigh. “Someone who doesn’t know you like I do would ask what is it that Moran did one year ago. They’d get you to put it into words. To name it. To expose it rather than keep it in a dark corner of your mind. Me… I’d rather let you keep quiet than risk hearing your pain.”

Sherlock isn’t sure where the words came from. It’s not anything he’s been thinking about consciously, let alone discussing with anyone. But the thought is too well-formed not to have been percolating at the back of his mind for a while.

“It’s late,” James says coolly. “I’ll get back to bed. Good night.”

In a flash, he’s on his feet and already across the room. It’s a dismissal if Sherlock ever heard one. And he hates that he didn’t give James what he wanted or needed to hear tonight.

“James?”

For a second, it looks like James will pretend he didn’t hear and won’t look back. But he does pause, he does turn an unfathomable look back to Sherlock.

“I’m glad you had a nice first kiss.”

A smile bursts on James’ lips, too bright to be anything but genuine. A nice memory indeed. He nods once before retreating to his room.

Alone once more, surrounded by darkness and memories that are not his own, Sherlock can only wonder if he just made a mistake – or if he acted like the good father he so desperately wants to be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Only With The Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595248) by [bagofthumbs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagofthumbs/pseuds/bagofthumbs)




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